


Heaven is Sun Showers

by Crystaliezed



Category: Dream SMP - Fandom, Minecraft (Video Game), Video Blogging RPF
Genre: 80's Music, Alcohol, Angst, Denial of Feelings, Falling In Love, Flirting, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Friends to Lovers, Gaslighting, Idiots in Love, Implied/Referenced Drug Addiction, Internalized Homophobia, Jealousy, M/M, Mutual Pining, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Panic Attacks, Pining, References to Drugs, Sexual Tension, Slow Build, Slow Burn, Strangers to Lovers, Texting, Time Skips, Tooth-Rotting Fluff, Weekly Updates, feral squad is the best squad i love them, idk its kinda both, late night loving, lots of 80s music..., pop off boys definitely pop off, switching POVs, very much gay poggers moment
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-12-02
Updated: 2021-01-28
Packaged: 2021-03-10 04:55:33
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 38,817
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27844849
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Crystaliezed/pseuds/Crystaliezed
Summary: There’s noticeable differences between the two of them, whether it be Dream’s impulsivity or George’s dependence on normalcy. Yet, these differences just bring them together, here in the now."Too easily, he can picture it; just Dream chilling on a random beach—silhouetted in the sunset’s harsh light, sounds of the ocean crashing on seawall, crystal-like shadows on his face. There’s some deep-rooted rightness in it, like he was made to stay in the sun, soaking in its spotlight.For George, it’s always been cold; sky’s always blotted out by clouds and the rain greets him in dissonance by striking his window. It feels wrong; the gloom of England laying heavy on his mind while he tosses around at night. There’s nothing alive in it, there hasn’t been in a while. "They say sun showers are rare, a phenomenon where the rain can coincide with the sunshine. And it just so happens that today is George’s lucky day, as he finds himself traveling alongside a stranger in New York City.(Inspired by the film, Before Sunrise)
Relationships: Alexis | Quackity & Karl Jacobs & Sapnap, Clay | Dream/GeorgeNotFound (Video Blogging RPF), dreamnotfound - Relationship
Comments: 155
Kudos: 291





	1. Temptation

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by Before Sunrise!! except its in NYC because I know way more about that. Also, this is all fictional and uhhh please don't share it to the people mentioned. Okay cool, thanks. B^)
> 
> Also it would be rad if you commented !!!
> 
> [Official Spotify playlist that I made inspired by this fic!](https://open.spotify.com/playlist/0dSoM6AGVKF1Iz2wMFRfG0?si=Ismalx44QXi0_VbIWV1dJA)
> 
> Important Note: In no way do I condone the fetishization of MLM and urge readers to refrain from doing so as it is extremely disgusting behavior. Do NOT harass content creators with any fake narratives and respect them by acknowledging the boundaries between yourself and the CC. This is a fictional scenario, pls remember that.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is acc my first time writing a fic so I didn’t want to write anything so plot-heavy. I really like Before Sunrise so I thought hey!! let’s do that!! It’s not going to follow the actual trilogy but there is going to be a time skip, just so you know beforehand. 
> 
> I hope the writing is alright, and if you like it, consider commenting because I’m nervous that it isn’t good! Btw, every is chapter named after a New Order song.

**August 19, 2018**

**Manhattan, New York**

“ _We all have our time machines. Some take us back, they’re called memories. Some take us forward, they’re called dreams._ ” 

-Jeremy Irons

☆.｡.:* .｡.:*☆

Lonely train rides are weird. If there’s anything comparable to the feeling, it’d certainly be like walking through an abandoned mall or taking a stroll through the park at an ungodly hour of the night. Feels sort of like a secret shared between yourself and the universe—strangely intimate and indescribably fulfilling. In these instances, it’s as though you’re being trapped in an otherworldly bubble without the constructs of time, so fragile you never know when it'll just pop.

So yeah, it’s weird—everything’s real weird when it’s past twelve. Air’s got this hazy feel and all the surroundings look kind of abstract, fuzzy. Just feels like you’re watching everything play out through a filtered recording. So nostalgic even though it’s all happening right before your eyes; glimmering, picturesque, and so strangely artificial.

It comes in waves; the rattling mantra of the train cart, the squeaking sounds of sneakers, hushed voices and murmurs—and suddenly the bubble bursts. 

George squints his eyes to focus on the monitor broadcasting the train’s location, tries to stretch out his limbs while making himself as small as possible. He begins to make out the stark red letters, when he’s interrupted by a robotic voice, “ _this is Thirty-Fourth Street, Herald Square...transfer is available to the E, D, F….”_

The announcement is lost to the sound of the metal doors sliding open. The slight emptiness of the train is filled in an instant, met with crowds of workers preparing themselves for their early shift—some rush in quickly to snag a seat and others take to the corners, bags wedged between their legs. An older woman sits next to George, pungent perfume wafting off of her business suit. She’s got that coiffed hair and red lipstick, and while she’s arguing on the phone, she can’t help but consistently smack her lips. Floral bed sheets and gaudy jewelry type of old lady smell, you know the one.

He busies himself with reading advertisements plastered to the top of the train—it’s distracting enough, he reasons. Plus, he’s acquired a shitload of new knowledge about the warning signs of sleep apnea. He’s twiddling his thumbs, now gazing at the dancing lights of the tunnels; blue, orange, yellow, blue—intermingling then joining together in one fully unified white light. 

When the next stop arrives, he’s too fixated on a spot on the floor to even notice that the woman has finally left, casting aside an empty seat in her absence. The train stills, standing by for a few moments until the adjacent express train arrives. The doors slam open once again—allowing for a second wave of passengers to make their way onto the train. His phone vibrates, and George snaps out of his slight trance to look at the incoming messages—from Sapnap, of course.

Today, 5:01 A.M.

**Sapnap** : sup dude, i got up early just to like hear about your new york adventures

**Sapnap** : my little english boy is all grown up, all independent going to new york by his widdle self

Today, 5:20 A.M.

**Sapnap** : ok so im gonna assume ur ignoring me bc u probs don’t have wifi since ur on the subway but the very SECOND you get wifi, you have to text me dude

  
  


He realizes that Sapnap was right in his judgement since it’s already six o’clock and his messages just came in. He rolls his eyes, savors the short lasting moments of service on his phone to type out a quick response.

  
  


**GeorgeNotFound** : i just got ur message and i’m on 42nd rn, i’ll update u later on my boring train ride. bye loser

  
  


He’s midway into turning off his phone and placing it into his jacket pocket when he gets a nudge on his shoulder from the new passenger sitting in the vacant seat next to his. Contrary to lightning, his voice is the first thing that strikes him. 

“Dude, uh, I don’t know if this weird etiquette...haven’t been in New York for quite some time, um,” he pauses and presses his lips together, then looks at George with a worrisome expression. “Well like do you have hand sanitizer? I kind of accidentally touched a pole and of course, with my luck? I landed my hand in a gross and wet piece of gum, nasty right?”

The first thing he notices is that he’s got that pretty boy look; the yellow of his irises a more warm amber shade in the soft glow of the over-head train lights, freckled sun-kissed skin—probably from being out and about—and he’s got this soft-looking dirty blonde hair. Real pretty—that sunshiney and blinding type of pretty. 

The train rattles violently and George remembers he’s supposed to answer the question. 

“Uh, yeah actually,” George starts and the stranger clenches his non-dirtied fist in victory and whispers a small and drawn out, “ _yessss, thank fuck._ ” 

“Hold on, let me just,” he directs his attention to the duffel bag at his feet and unzips its front pocket, shuffles through to feel for the miniature bottle of hand sanitizer. He’d been nagged by Sapnap to clean his hands every few minutes—the reasoning being, “ _bro, the subway’s stanky. Like shit’s filled with rats and mutants we probably don’t even know of. I’m just saying man, you wouldn’t look too good as a mutant ninja turtle if you accidentally touch something._ ”

He refrains from scoffing and hands it to the stranger, makes sure to _not_ awkwardly say, “here, that sounds really gross.” And yes, he definitely doesn’t hear the slight break in his voice.

The guy obviously picks up something else when George speaks because suddenly his eyes widen while exclaiming, “oh shit, so you’re totally not from New York! Cool, cool, I wasn’t looking forward to being low-key ignored by someone thinking I was a creep. Kind of an unspoken rule around here to not spark up any conversation, I guess…” 

Right when he says that, a man holding a railing points his eyes at the two of them in annoyance. When he looks away, George has to hold in a snicker, laughter bubbling in his chest. 

“I see you holding in your laughter. It’s okay to laugh, I guess I spoke a little louder than I thought,” the guy says and lets out a heavy wheeze. George lets go of the laugh he’d been holding in small giggles, a hand over his smile in secrecy. The stranger’s face is a little flushed and he bashfully hands him back his bottle of hand sanitizer after cleaning his hands.

He takes it back. Their fingers brush and it sends a jolt down his spine.

“So what gave it away then?” He absentmindedly scratches at his face softly, trying to do away the nerves of socializing after such an extended period of loneliness. 

“Hm?”

The stranger starts analyzing his face, eyes wandering everywhere. He’s suddenly itchy again—feeling like he needs to impress him. He notices that his eyelashes are pretty too—those long, curly lashes that everyone wants. His eyes scanning his figure is, in reality, quick and probably harmless but it feels like it’s been longer. Being perceived is fucking terrifying.

“The fact I’m not from here. What gave it away?”

“Oh!” His smile reaches his eyes, squinting in joy. “Well, definitely not the fact that you have an accent and you’re carrying around that huge bag like a tourist.”

As George is about to make a snarky reply, a man and woman start arguing. To his surprise, none of the passengers even divert their eyes over to them in curiosity. It’s like they don’t exist—as if their problems aren’t being laid out bare naked for everyone to hear. 

“ _I don’t know Chris, how’d you expect me to feel after you fucking snuck around last year and hooked up with someone while we were engaged?!_ ”

“ _I- I’m sorry, babe. It was a mistake, and we never even got to the hooking up part! We just kissed once and I- I don’t know what got over me. It just happened and I regret it.”_

“ _Fuck you! I was working so hard in California to make money for our wedding and this is what you do? You could’ve just told me you weren’t interested anymore and I wouldn’t have wasted all this fucking time on you!_ ”

The train doors open again, interrupting their aggressive discussion. The woman looks at him in boiling hatred, tugs off the ring on her finger and launches it into the slot between the train and the floor. Then, she storms off as he runs after her in anguish. A few other people exit as well. It’s quite mystifying; something so heartbreaking, so earth-shattering, and yet no one pays any mind. Just a fleeting moment in a train cart. 

“Well...shit,” says his acquaintance at his side. He has his arm crossed, eyes trained to the now closed train doors. 

“Yeah. I- I guess you were right. People really don’t care much here, do they?”

“I mean, I doubt anyone wants to get yelled at if they do get involved y’know? And trust man, I’ve seen some gnarly shit go down in New York. Like, I was on the express before and I just saw someone dressed in full ass BDSM—accessories and all that shit!” He says everything with these animated expressions and hand gestures, allowing George to hang onto each word. 

“Ugh, gross,” he snickers, swinging his legs when he starts feeling his feet losing sensation and succumbing to that annoying static feeling.

“I kinda enjoy it though, like-,” he interrupts the stranger by raising his eyebrows and he starts chuckling again and covers his face in shame, “not _that_! I mean New York. I like it.” George gives a questioning hum. “It’s just...everyone’s so much more real, I guess. It’s all straightforward—no one acts like they care about your life when they’re absorbed in their own. No one gives you weird looks if you trip on the stairs or your shirt isn’t buttoned the right way. Fuck, I sound so stupid praising this capitalist bullshit of a city. I drank too much coffee this morning and I’m being weird.”

“No, you’re not wrong though,” George clears his throat. “Europe is looked at as this symbol of beauty with its art and history—all that romantic shit, but, with all of that history, you’re just reminded about how small you are in the grand scheme of things. But here, New York, there’s so many different types of places and people that you feel like you’re important and a part of something. It feels genuine and yeah, real.” 

“Huh,” the guy says to himself, followed by, “yeah, I...yeah, agreed. So where are you headed to in New York?” The guy then double-takes and makes sure to say, “if it’s something that you don’t want to talk about, forget I asked.”

“Well actually, I’m visiting my grandparents as a surprise. They’ve been constantly asking me to come over since I’m always, in their opinion, cooped up in my apartment so I decided, why not?” A pause and as an afterthought he says, “also, my name is George if you needed to put a name to the face.”

“George,” he tests out the name on his tongue. “Well, my name is…,” he’s silent for a split second and looks down at his hands almost like it’s secretly written on one of his palms, “Dream. My name’s Dream.” George wants to question if that’s actually his name but he figures that it’s not exactly the most polite thing to ask. Plus, Dream said it with so much conviction that it’s difficult to say otherwise.

Dream interrupts his thoughts and continues, “a lot of people also tell me to take a vacation, get away from my job, and just go somewhere. So I thought, _how about I go somewhere super random?_ So I went to Kansas. Turns out there’s not much to do there,” he laughs under his breath. “I’ve been train-hopping till’ I got to New York. I have a flight sometime early tomorrow but I really wanted to come back here at least once.” He looks up a tad bit wistfully, and George decides he enjoys Dream’s company. 

“Kansas? Pretty sure I’ve only heard about it from The Wizard of Oz. Like that one line,” he switches to his best impression of an American accent, “ _Toto, I have a feeling we’re not in Kansas anymore._ ”

“Yeah, trust—it was horrible,” Dream throws his head back and laughs, “I started searching up, _things to do in Kansas,_ and ended up going to this random park and got so many fucking mosquito bites. Definitely wasn’t worth it.”

“So, New York. Besides what you’ve said, what makes you so desperate to come back?” Crowds enter and exit. A teen wearing a wife beater and ripped shorts walks in, places a hat on the floor, and starts break-dancing. When he finishes, a few people clap—Dream throws in a crumpled five dollar bill from the pocket of his sweater. 

“I came here as a kid once—probably ten years ago, give or take. We—well, my family—only came down here because my sister kept pressing them about it. I remember she kept yelling and saying “ _I want to go to the Toys-R-Us store and ride the really big ferris wheel!_ ” We had just finished visiting our cousins in New Jersey and we were close by so they were like _hey, why not?_ ” Dream looks up at the train walls, reminiscent gaze heavy in his eyes. “I really liked it. Much more than Disney World actually. Sure there were no rides but I felt like being here, I’d never get bored. Everything’s always changing and growing. It just feels alive.” 

“Where are you from?” George likes hearing him talk. He’s got this way of saying things, all languid-like. It makes him feel comfortable—like they could talk about anything or nothing at all and it’d still feel interesting.

“Florida. Real shocker, I know,” his voice drips with sarcasm. “I don’t like it much. ‘S always hot and there’s nothing but beaches and overpriced amusement parks.”

Too easily, he can picture it; just Dream chilling on a random beach—silhouetted in the sunset’s harsh light, sounds of the ocean crashing on seawall, crystal-like shadows on his face. There’s some deep-rooted rightness in it, like he was made to stay in the sun, soaking in its spotlight. 

For George, it’s always been cold; sky’s always blotted out by clouds and the rain greets him in dissonance by striking his window. It feels wrong; the gloom of England laying heavy on his mind while he tosses around at night. There’s nothing alive in it, there hasn’t been in a while.

“England’s quite the opposite of Florida but I guess it’s all the same, really. Everywhere is bad unless you attach something special to it. I think it’s funny how everyone kind of hates where they’re from like I’m sure people in New York hate the things that other people love about it,” is what George settles on saying. Doesn’t bring up the fact that Dream looks like he was born to live in sunbeams; freckles like the brush of sand on skin.

“True. We all feel caged, one way or another. Recently, I’ve been thinking about how we’re tied down by this thought of how life could be if we did something differently. Like, where would I be if I impulsively left Florida and went to Kansas? Part of this, for me, is just proving to myself that I can do random shit and maybe something good will come out of it. Even if it’s a story about how I tripped on a pole and landed my hand in a wad of gum, like—it’s something, right?” 

George wants to say something like “I think meeting you is cool enough a story for me,” but it dies quickly on his tongue. Everything feels too easy to say right now, like all of these sentimental pieces of information are just jokes shared between the two of them. So instead, he finds himself desperate to question, “when’s your stop? Mine’s actually next,” then he starts speaking again, just for the sake of saying things, “Fifty-Ninth, I—yeah.” He registers that he wants to talk to Dream more; ask him about his career, his name, the places he would frequent in New York. It’s an overwhelming feeling, really. The contemplation of what could be when meeting strangers. But in the end it’s all somewhat mechanical—the way you’re bound to pass by so many people, despite your disinterest or fascination in their lives. 

“Ah,” he doesn’t know Dream well enough to read his expressions but if he did, he’d say that it was disappointment mixed with something else. He’s hyper-aware of the speed of the train, how it winds loudly on the train tracks. The windows aren’t casting them in darkness anymore, brightened by the pale yellow of the Fifty-Ninth street station. “Kinda wish I met you earlier. I like talking to you.”

“Yeah, me too.” A beat. The train doors open with a slam, louder now. Passengers leave, some stay, some enter—sloshing around like water in a plastic bag. George grips on his duffel bag like somehow their conversation will end less awkwardly, more fulfilling.

“It was cool meeting you,” he says, and George gives him a genuine smile in agreement. He ruffles his hair, gestures for George to walk out of the train doors before him in a gangly boyish way. 

There’s an unspoken tension that dangles between them, wonders if Dream feels it too. That type of tension that doesn’t go away and lingers on for a while like expensive perfume and you’re forced to submerge yourself in it. The train leaves, blows some steam in his face while he walks away. 

He’s only a few steps away when suddenly, Dream taps him on the shoulder, “okay, so. I’ve got this weird thought and I feel like if I don’t ask, it’ll haunt me forever. Missed opportunities and all that.” 

“Okay,” he clumsily laughs, relieved that they’re speaking again. “What would that be?” 

“Alright. So—think of it like this; jump ahead five, ten years. You’re deep in thought thinking about how many friends you’ve missed out on. And maybe I’m one of them. So this is basically like traveling back in time, to see what you’re missing out on. Maybe it’s just me but I feel like we’d be good friends and I don’t know, I was thinking we could walk around New York—talk about stuff.”

“What-,” he chuckles, “What would we do?” 

“I dunno. I just know I’m getting on this flight at 4 A.M. tomorrow morning and I have nowhere near the amount of money it would cost me to buy a hotel room so we’d probably be wandering around the streets all day.”

There’s this feeling blooming in his chest; anticipation like you’d get at the top of a rollercoaster. It’s an unavoidable feeling that plummets to the bottom of your stomach and wafts around till’ you’re ticklish. It’s one of those moments where you’re asking yourself, _am I really doing this?_ and you can’t turn back. But George has never been one to turn down something overly exciting; he teters on the line between being a leader and follower constantly, and Dream is just extremely convincing. 

“Okay,” it comes out in one breath, like even if he didn’t agree, it’d still come out forcibly from between his lips. 

Dream smiles and Florida’s sun cowers in fear, just a little.

☆.｡.:* .｡.:*☆

The sky’s perfect, few clouds stretched paper-thin; temperature’s just right. A type of day that needs to be savored and explored. A flock of cyclists pass them by, wheels hitting the grates on the street metallically. Loads of city sounds following suit; honking of cars, the yelling of people on the phone. George has this jelly-feeling in his legs when walking beside Dream in silence, both of them realizing that, in a strange way, they’re committed to each other now.

“Shit,” Dream stops to say, turns to George anxiously, “I just noticed that you’re gonna have to walk around with that duffle bag. Is it heavy?”

“There’s not a lot of stuff in it, just a couple of clothes.” Aware of the strain that he’s been putting on his left wrist, he trades the bag to his right hand. He tries not to make it too obvious because he has that front of blatant masculinity to maintain. 

Dream stares him down, cocks an eyebrow lightheartedly. He doesn’t have to communicate to him through words because his expressions are enough to say, _you’re full of shit_. George rolls his eyes, nothing else to really say after he got caught in his lie. Dream scans the area then adds, “look, there’s a coffee shop over there. I doubt they’ll mind if we asked them to hold your stuff for a while.”

“And how do you suppose that’ll work out, _Dream_? I doubt they’ll do that.”

Dream starts digging through all of his pockets until he reaches for some cash, not enough but enough to get by. He brings it into George’s line of vision and shakes it for emphasis. “Duhh, money. Besides, I dunno about England but minimum wage sucks here. A few dollars is fuckin’ awesome. This is said from personal experience.”

“Oh? What’d you work as?” He follows Dream down the street, about a few paces back but vigilantly tries to keep up with him—cutting through crowds of people. Dream’s got longer legs than his and he’s speedy on his feet.

“I worked in retail. This was a few years back, but it was the worst.” Dream swings the door open to a random coffee shop and the chiming of bells greet them in earnest. It’s coated in a dim yellow light—real homey and vintage. It’s a two-floored café, with the bottom level having a few lounging areas walled in by bookcases. There’s a stand at the right side for brewing drinks and purchasing pastries, tended by a beautiful woman who's probably in her early twenties. At the top floor, there’s boxes of vinyl records and a chess table square at its center. It’s pretty chill; there’s not any music playing but it's got this loud ambience going for it that hides any sort of chatter. “Ooh, this is pretty nice,” Dream says quietly.

“Hello, welcome to the Pink Flamingo!” the woman chimes from behind the counter. She’s _really_ pretty and George feels himself straightening his back unknowingly in an effort to look more put together. She has a doll-like face, with these big blue eyes emphasized by her black mascara. She looks pretty posh with blonde curls neatly framing her jaw. His face flushes a little and he can feel Dream’s eyes on him like he just _knows_ what’s going on in George’s head. 

That’s the thing; George wears his heart on his sleeve and even worse is that he wears his awkwardness like it’s tattooed onto his forehead.

“Hey, so I have a random question,” Dream saunters in front of him with this air of coolness, showing off that it’s easy for him to talk with just about anyone. He realizes Dream is one of those guys that’s naturally cunning; he looks comfortable anywhere, resourceful in all the right places. And strangely he feels like Dream is one of those rare people that can just look at people and know what they’re thinking, like he’s got everything figured out. 

“Sure, what can I do for you?” She somewhat cranes her neck upwards to look at Dream with him being tall and all. The girl’s average height but Dream has this freakish length on him that makes anyone look short.

“Well, see, me and my buddy here are going around for a while and we just needed somewhere to keep our stuff. If it’s not too much of a hassle, is there any way we can keep it in the storage room?” Dream holds out some money and her mouth falls open in thought, looks both ways. 

“Um…,” she lets out a breath and slouches her shoulders in surrender, “yeah, sure. As long as you don’t have anything...illegal, you know.” The girl—whose name was apparently Olivia as per her name tag—chews her bottom lip, takes the cash from Dream’s hands, and waits for them to answer—blue eyes bouncing between them. 

George coughs, an indication that he’s present and not receding into the background.“It’s just a bunch of clothes and vacation type of stuff, don’t worry,” George says quickly and opens his bag to show her the wide array of rolled up shirts and pants—nothing too embarrassing.

She giggles a bit and replies, “okay, cool. And another condition, you just have to buy something from the store. It can be anything! I just don’t want my boss getting suspicious.” 

“Yeah, that sounds right. Dream, do you want anything?” Dream glances up from the pastries he was looking at and hums in refusal while shaking his head. He then tilts his head to the top level to signify to George that he’ll be waiting upstairs. He watches Dream walk away, disappearing from his vision.

“I’ll just get some of these cookies, then.” He points to the batch that Dream was checking out; star-shaped sugar cookies with yellow frosting on the top. He thinks it’s a bit adorable that he has a sweet-tooth, not to mention his favoritism with the color yellow.

“How’s New York treating you?” Olivia asks while using a pair of silver tongs to pick out a few cookies. He’s a little taken aback, wheels turning in his head that possibly... _maybe_ she’s flirting with him? The thought quickly dies out, sizzles and pops like a dying flame. 

“It’s neat. It’s a lot different from England, that’s for sure.” He gives her some of his money, having just exchanged his euros before departing on the train. She starts clicking on the keypad to the cash register as he scratches his neck with his hands, feeling weirdly out of place now that Dream isn’t with him.

“So, big guy over there,” she signals her eyes over to the far-right to where Dream is sitting, “he’s your friend that you’re visiting?”

His ears suddenly feel hot, “No, um- actually, we just met on the train.” She doesn’t look at him, preoccupied with wrapping up the box of cookies in floral tissue paper.

“That’s so cute! That’s how I met my girlfriend actually. It was in Vienna but...that’s basically the same thing!” She hands him his change with the receipt and George’s brain fully short circuits and reboots in the matter of two seconds. The door chime suddenly sounds, twinkles like the sound of glitter as another person walks in. 

“Uh- I… um, we’re just…,” his throat suddenly feels dry and his face explodes into warmth like it’s just made contact with a fully heated grill. The sentence melts on his tongue so instead, he says,“That’s a really sweet way to meet your girlfriend! I’m sure it was quite romantic!” It’s a little robotic but a ton of information hit him at once so he can’t blame himself.

She doesn’t really notice and just happily says, “It was! Well, enjoy your cookies!” and hands him the bag containing a pale blue cardboard box. He sends her a tight-lipped smile and she gives him a genuine and full grin in return. 

He makes his way up to the top level of the café with a trail of shame darkly walking behind him. He stills when he walks in, Dream’s back facing him. He seems to be having a serious conversation on the phone, laden with secrecy, and George can only hear the tail-end:

“ _Yeah, yeah. I know, you want me to get there as soon as I can,”_ it’s followed by silence, then, “ _no_ , _I promise, it’s not you, okay? I just needed some time alone for a while. And yes, I get it. I’ll be there, Sav, just please stop yelling at me.”_ Dream stifles a laugh but it’s filled with malice, irritation obviously seeping through. _“Okay, I’m gonna hang up. I don’t want to deal with this right now.”_

Dream turns off his phone, puts it on the table a little angrily, then buries his face into his hands in exasperation. George stills, waiting for an appropriate time to walk into his frame of vision. It’s upsetting, seeing his shoulders sag and his breaths come out shakily, but just as quickly, he shakes his head and he looks okay again.

“Hi again Dream, I got myself some pastries,” George wiggles the bag in his hands and sits in the chair across from his; a little quietly—apprehensive. If Dream were anyone else, it’d feel romantic—sitting across one another at a café with little information about the other person.

“Oh sweet,” he straightens his back and his smile looks as though it’d never left. “Soooo,” he draws out and says, “how was your chat with the cashier girl? I could totally tell you were into her. She was pretty cute.”

“She...uh, had a partner already, so,” and all at once the embarrassment and shame come back, flooding his face in bursts of heat. 

“Fuck. Sorry, uh. Bright-side is that you’ve got some cookies to snack on, right?” 

“Actually,” he pops open the lid of the box to reveal the cookies to Dream. “I got them for you. You seemed to be pretty psyched when you were looking at them and plus, you did use some of your money earlier on me. This is like a thank you.” He pushes them over to Dream and he goes wide-eyed, pointing to himself in disbelief as George nods his head, innocent smile. 

“That’s like,” he looks at the opened box with fondness and picks up one cookie. “That’s really nice, ew. I’m going to barf with how nice you are. Stop.” He eats it, almost fearful, like he’s never been gifted or praised.

“What? Do you not like it?”

“No!” he exclaims, a hand over his mouth while he munches on the cookie. “I do! Really! It’s just,” he glances around then suddenly stands up from his chair—its legs grating on the floor a little harshly. He audibly swallows then says, “okay, give me a second.”

Suddenly, it’s real silent. Just the sound of breathing and the scuffing and squeaking of Dream’s shoes—kinda awkward, kinda intimate.

He looks around at the alphabetized vinyl records, bends down, then proceeds to look through a random pile. Having picked out one that looks a bit dusty and torn, he unsheathes it and places it onto the café’s vinyl player that sits on a small coffee table. George questionably giggles and the song starts after Dream messes with the machine a bit. 

An upbeat tune starts up, very 80s in the way its beat sounds electronic, synthesizers bleeding through in a pop-ish way. Dream sways his head to the melody then seats himself across George again. 

“You’ve ever listened to the band New Order?” George shakes his head. “Dude, what?! Okay, whatever, cool. This compilation album is really good—‘s called Substance. But this song? I think I like it the most. Anyways, onto what I was going to say,” Dream props his head up with his hands. “I am now commencing Q and A time, except you have to ask very outlandish questions that are super personal for no reason. And you have to be one hundred percent honest.”

“What?” Dream looks at him, expecting. “Okay, sure. But, I’ll go first.” 

_Heaven, a gateway, a hope_

_Just like a feeling inside, it's no joke_

_And though it hurts me to treat you this way_

_Betrayed by words, I'd never heard, too hard to say._

“Why do you like the color yellow so much?” He snags a cookie from Dream’s stash.

“Yellow?” he looks at him in confusion and looks down at his sweater, tugging it a bit. “George, it’s green.” 

“Oh. I’m colorblind. I couldn’t tell, whoops. So your eyes...they’re green, then? Are the cookies green too?” The beat of the song drops, and it sounds like confetti, multicolored and vibrant. It brings him comfort and washes Dream in a fluorescent aura—makes the entire scenario feel shimmery.

“Yeah, wow. Colorblind, huh?” George nods casually, used to the pity that people usually throw his way when he tells them. “First off, yeah the cookies are green and so are my eyes. Secondly, that sounds awesome. Like, you see things in such a different way than most people do. Um, so green. It’s not really that personal but it came up a lot during important times when I was younger. So I just associate it with luck like a lucky number or something. It’s a specific type of green too. Lime green.”

_Up, down, turn around_

_Please don't let me hit the ground_

_Tonight I think I'll walk alone_

_I'll find my soul as I go home_

“I relate to that. For me, it’s blue. It’s one of the only colors I can see so vibrantly. That and yellow but I can get it confused with green or even red so it’s not as special. But blue is nice. I can see it the same way as other people so I don’t feel that weird when others describe it. So, your turn. Ask me something.”

“I’m gonna go all out for this one. Who was your first romantic interest—like, someone you think you might’ve been in love with?” Dream looks intrigued while happily eating his cookies.

“Alright, don’t laugh. But it was fictional because, well,” he looks at his clasped hands, “it doesn’t matter. But, I was really into the Harry Potter series when I was younger-,”

Dream interrupts him and asks, “why doesn’t it matter? We’re supposed to be honest here, George.” Dream rocks his chair forward and leans in a bit with a mischievous expression decorating his face. 

“Ugh, okay. As long as you don’t make fun of me,” Dream nods so he continues, “I don’t think I’ve ever really loved anyone in the _romantic_ sense. I’ve found girls pretty and I enjoy flirting with them but...it never goes anywhere. It’s either I get disinterested or they get tired of me hanging out with my friends. I did, however, have a huge crush on Hermione from Harry Potter.”

“Of course you did, you little English boy.” Him and George start cackling because they’re both high on dopamine and it’s hilarious in the moment. The music makes him a bit delirious as well as it plays crisply through the record player—like a scene in a movie.

“Maybe I’ll meet someone one day. Preferably like this; I don’t think this could be any more romantic, right? Cheesy music in a hole in the wall café.”

“I agree. I don’t think it’s easy, either—meeting someone that you just click with instantly. Shit, like...you know how people say things like, _you’ll know when you meet them._ Do you believe that? That there’s one moment where you meet someone and you can just swear that you were both put on Earth to meet each other at that specific instance?” He picks at his sweater, strings coming undone—unwinding briskly. 

Profound is what he’d call the connection he has with Dream, like they’ve rekindled a friendship lost to time. It’s also a word that George would specifically use when detailing this moment and why he decides to say, “I think I’m starting to.” The sincerity is, thankfully, diluted by the sound of the music, not as genuine or telling.

_Oh, you've got green eyes_

_Oh, you've got blue eyes_

_Oh, you've got grey eyes_

“Me too,” Dream starts biting his lower lip, white teeth snagging on plush pink skin as he loses focus on the loose strings of his sweater.

_Oh, you've got green eyes_

_Oh, you've got blue eyes_

_You've got grey eyes_

They look at each other, Dream’s expression softening—some bizarre affection oozing out of both of them. George’s heart suddenly swells and thrums, beating like a drum in his ears. Wonders if Dream can feel it too, the ghosts of his thoughts abruptly possessing him. His throat’s gone dry so he swallows, heavy-sounding. He hopes Dream can’t hear the pounding of his heartbeat, wishes that it’s lost to the song coming from the vinyl player—he repeats this thought like a prayer. 

_And I've never seen anyone quite like you before_

_No, I've never met anyone quite like you before_

_Bolts from above hurt the people down below_

_People in this world, we have no place to go_

“Have you ever been in love, Dream?” It sounds vulnerable and George isn’t sure why; maybe it has to do with the way his breath hitches at the end, wobbly, careful. He feels a tickling sensation in his stomach and his forehead starts thrumming in off-beat thumps.

Dream hums, his smile falling a bit, “Yeah, once.” He leaves it at that and the knot in George’s chest tightens, ever so softly. There’s a peculiar silence and just when George is sure Dream won’t continue, he says, “I guess I’m not cut out for love either,” he starts drawing circles in the table with his finger, “she cheated on me. That’s pretty much it."

_Oh, it's the last time_

_Oh, it's the last time_

_Oh, it's the last time_

“That’s awful and I hope you believe me when I say she doesn’t deserve you,” it sounds angry and forced but George is upset hearing Dream sound so dejected. His hair looks soft and George has a terrifyingly strong urge to touch it. He feels a lot of things at once; how much he’d like to bury his face in his sweater, hold Dream in his arms and soothe him until he’s not upset anymore, maybe hold his hand. He buries it deep inside, knowing it’s nonsensical. He’s just lonely and it’s making him desperate for any sort of affection—surely.

The song ends and the veil of faux love dissipates; leaves him in a shroud of mist, but the thunderclouds rampaging in the cavity of his chest persist. Dream breaks the silence, and a voice deep inside of him believes he’s winded too when he says, “We should go. I don’t want the day to end so soon.”

“Actually, I’m gonna go to the restroom. In the meantime you can figure out what we could do,” George states and tries to swallow down his panicked breaths. He doesn’t look at Dream afterwards, more concerned with getting to the restroom as quickly as he can.

Once he ensures the door is locked, he leans against the ceramic tiles of the bathroom wall, and intakes a heavy breath, trying to calm down. But too soon the dam breaks and he lets out a heavy sob, hands shaking in panic. He felt it—the blossoming of butterflies in his stomach, disgusting insects fluttering to and fro. 

He decides it’s probably the best time to text Sapnap because somehow, talking to him makes him feel better.

Today, 9:05 A.M.

**GeorgeNotFound** : Hi

**Sapnap** : why if it isn’t my good sir gogy…how was the train?

**Sapnap** : also did you find out how ur gonna spend your day before visiting the grandparents tomorrow? i rlly want to see the reaction, pls send a video

**GeorgeNotFound** : The train was okay, also uhhhh i kind of did??? i met someone

**GeorgeNotFound** : and we’re hanging out rn

**Sapnap** : holy shit 

**Sapnap** : GEORGE!!!!!!!!!!

**Sapnap** : george did u find a girlfriend in new york too?? DUUUDE, MY MAN IS BAGGING THE NEW YORK LADIES. it was the accent wasn’t it? i told you bro, the accent brings in all girls.

**GeorgeNotFound** : first off. shut up, u know i’m deffo a ladies magnet with or without the accent

**GeorgeNotFound** : Secondly.

George is scared to talk about Dream, feeling like he’s this outer dimensional being, separate from anything he’s ever experienced before. His fingers are still shaking but his breaths are a bit more even.

**Sapnap** : dude what are u writing. a novel? let’s go, chop chop !!!! u know i hate the suspense 

**GeorgeNotFound** : it wasn’t a girl, it was a guy. he’s chill, we’re just vibing idk. we met on the train

**Sapnap** : ok...u sure he’s not gonna murder you??

**GeorgeNotFound** : stop being my mom, he’s cool. his name is dream and he’s from florida

**Sapnap** : dream?? that’s a sick nickname, what’s his actual name?

**GeorgeNotFound** : i don’t kno, i forgot to ask him. we just met !! 

**Sapnap** : hm.

**Sapnap** : look i just want you to be careful, your mom entrusted me with ur safety so right now i am ur personal bodyguard

**GeorgeNotFound** : actually can i call you .

**Sapnap** : yeah dude i’m not even doing anything but playing minecraft

George clicks on the call button, bringing his phone to his ear—the ringing pacing back and forth like clockwork.

“Hey dude, what’s up? You like, rarely call,” he snickers, buoyant but short, a thin layer of uneasiness present.

George inhales, mentally preparing himself, “yeah, um.” He feels a burning in his nose, a caution sign that tears will forcibly make their way through his tear ducts. He curses his body, tries to will himself to not make any sounds but a sniffle makes its way through.

“George? Hold on, let me go to my room real quick,” the sound of a door closing then, “George, breathe. It’s okay, I promise.”

“ _Fuck_ ,” he rubs his eyes with the cloth from his sweater. “I’m okay. I just...I don’t know. It’s fucking dumb. I’m fucking dumb.”

“I can promise to you that whatever it is, it’s not dumb. Nothing’s ever dumb, we just tell ourselves it is so we don’t have to acknowledge it.”

He looks down at his shoes, rubs them together like somehow he’ll find a new way to stop himself from crying. “I don’t think I want to talk about it. But,” he starts it with a crack in his voice, “can you just talk to me for a while? It can be anything. I’m just so,” a sharp intake of breath.

“Yeah, yes. Okay, uh—alright. So me and Karl, right? Today we thought it would be cool to go to that furniture store next to me that just opened up because I need a new chair, remember? Wait, no you don’t remember. But, Karl, like the dumbass he is, decided that he’d jump from my high ass bed to my chair. He was okay, thank fuck! But the fucker broke my chair!”

As Sapnap retells his story about how they single-handedly got themselves banned from the new furniture store, George finds it easier to breathe. And just as easily, he drowns his thoughts about Dream into the back of his mind. 


	2. Dream Attack

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ayo dream POV time. also gay garden scene.

☆.｡.:* .｡.:*☆

The chain of the confined bathroom’s overhead lamp—a mere bulb planted on the ceiling—swings like a pendulum, flickering with a crackling hum as it exudes an off-white glow. It barely manages to illuminate the whole room, shadows clinging heavily to the corners. 

He grasps the corners of the sink, anchoring himself while trying not to descend into the fit of panic he was in before. George looks at himself then, reflection murky underneath the thick layer of accumulated grime, and sighs. The longer he stares, the further he feels from himself—his vision going blurry at the sides. He still looks a little red in the eyes, an indication to himself that, yes, he did just have a panic attack a mere few moments ago. Time does wonders, doing away the redness and inflammation in his face. 

When he opens the door, he sees that Dream’s leaning on a ledge, transfixed on his phone. Despite the intrusion, he’s starting to become accustomed to the lovestruck palpitations of his heart—a sign that he’s suffering from jetlag and fatigue. _It’s only a natural reaction_ , he repeats in his head. 

The way he’s bathed in technicolor lights, honey-like in his demeanor, his voice, refreshing, like cherries dipped in chocolate— _It’s only a natural reaction._

“Oh hey,” Dream calls out, slipping his phone in his jean pocket, and scratching the record that spun his intrusive thoughts.

☆.｡.:* .｡.:*☆

Dream would describe himself as someone who's sequestered in his own bubble—he’s pretty social and talks to people easily by using his charms, but he never lets anyone get too close to _know_ him. He’s always been like that— _fire is_ _comforting from a distance but dangerous when you get too close,_ is what he’s settled on. 

People would call him a natural-born leader; always dependable, self-assertive when it counts, and most importantly, he’s got this false impassivity that he uses as a mask. It’s for his own protection, though, because people only ever know how to burn and they leave scorch marks that beckon him at night—screaming for attention. Some burns are more palpable, specifically one that haunts him with words coated in coconut-flavored lip-gloss. 

Savannah’s a party girl; sweaty blonde hair that sticks to her forehead, blown out pupils from the pills and alcohol, and she only ever glimmers in club lights. She smells like crushed love and powdered sugar, minus the conflicting scents of men’s cologne. Despite it all, Dream loves her and pretending he doesn’t see the drifting of her eyes is tolerable as long as she tells him that she loves him too.

Dream doesn’t make a big deal out of it, figuring that tainted love is better than none at all. That, and he still clings onto the past. 

There was a time when both of their parents thought they’d get hitched right out of high school. Two kids, a family house with a picket-fence, the whole nine. People’ll ask him how the fuck things got that way; one day you’re sucking face and the next, you’re both fuck-ups who can’t even talk to each other. But Dream is unbearingly loyal, can’t sever ties with the people he loves because it’d destroy him.

And it only gets worse; so Dream delays the inevitable, prefering to escape the situation than confront it—something unlike him. He left Florida and on a whim, went to Kansas, impulsively spent half of his paycheck by hopping on and off trains, and found himself in New York City.

He tries to ignore her messages and calls, avoids the sinking feeling in his chest when she tells him how much she loves him, that it’ll be better once he comes back. Other times, she’ll leave voicemails blaming him; criticizing his inability to help her feel better about herself, reprimanding him that he’s a shitty boyfriend. 

There’s something heartbreaking in the way that hurt manifests—the way he prefers to hold onto something toxic rather than cut his ties with her. There’s comfort in suffering when you’re suffering with someone. But once that person is gone, there comes a realization that you were alone to begin with. 

When Dream finds himself waiting for the local train at Forty-Second street, he feels inclined to impulsively drink the night away in some random pub, despite his dislike of the taste of alcohol. Anything to get his mind off of Savannah’s empty promises and loose lips. In his heart-rending stupor, he trips on his own shoe and lands his hand in a gushy and still-wet piece of gum. It’s laughable, really, like the world wouldn’t prefer it more than to mock his pathetic display of heartbreak.

When Dream meets George, his distaste for the universe dissipates just a little. George is soft-spoken yet shares in his outlandish discussions and when he speaks, Dream feels his chest burning with pleasure and happiness. It’s rare to find someone to share stories and laughs with instantly, like it was just meant to be. Without really thinking, he asks George to spend a night with him, unaware of the underlying implications. And George is sweet—he asks Dream questions like he _wants_ to know him. He has a pretty smile, one that lights up a room in seconds. 

And for the first time, when Savannah calls him, talking his ear off about how Dream is a shit person, he has enough confidence to speak up. George makes him feel giddy, and his heart skips in tune with the sound of the record scratches of the vinyl that he plays. It’s only a descent into chest pains from there; and suddenly, he’s falling, butterflies and all. 

☆.｡.:* .｡.:*☆

As Dream walks forward without any specific destination, George strides alongside him, a few paces back. After the tension-filled situation at the café, Dream was left a bit flustered, knowing that there were unsaid words hanging between them. Haphazardly, he walks quicker than usual, scared of seeming awkward or obvious with his emotions.

“Dream,” George calls out, loud enough for him to hear. He tugs on the sleeve of his sweater softly, but enough to halt Dream to a stop. The sudden touch makes Dream’s breath hitch, George’s fingers in close proximity to actually touching him. He never thought the idea of touch would get him this flustered, yet here he is; wide-eyed and red in the face from being caught off-guard with it. George let’s go in such a way that reminds him of being scalded by hot water, his hands instantly dropping to his sides. They look at each other, partly out of awkwardness and partly out of fascination for each other’s facial features.

“What?” Dream decides to ask, bashful under his scrutinizing gaze.

“Oh! Um…,” George looks down at his feet, “I just wanted you to walk a little slower so I could catch up. I’m not as lengthy as you, unfortunately.”

“Yeah… uh,” Dream looks around for a scapegoat and spots a lush garden a few feet away. “I was rushing over there,” he gestures over with a crane of his neck, hands smashed into his pockets. “Let’s go check it out, come on.”

The setting is breathtaking, yards of greenery and plant-life bursting with life, color, and sweetness. It’s a fantasy garden in every right, with a cloister-like courtyard and ivy growing on scattered marble statues sitting by beds of lily pads over ponds. Sounds of the pickup of wind and the ebb and flow of water sing in their ears. It’s quieter here, the crowds of people more preoccupied with the upbeat of the city rather than sticking to one place. There’s no one around, a bubble-like environment forming around them making everything seem muffled and other-worldly; kinda like they’re in a Monet painting.

“There’s so many different types of flowers, holy shit,” giggles George behind a grouping of bright purple lilacs, touching their petals ever so delicately with the tip of his finger. “Ok, so this is random but these flowers remind me of a video-game that I still play a lot, even though it’s embarrassing. It’s childish, I know, but it brings up nice memories.” He’s fixated on the blossoming lilacs, sunlight seeping through the skin of the petals and painting his face a fluorescent purple. Dream thinks he looks a tad bit like a nymph amidst the foliage—angelic and a little too perfect in the way he just blends in.

“Can’t be worse than the things I play in my free time,” chimes Dream as he lets out a laugh akin to a whistling tea-kettle. George immediately breaks out in high pitched laughter, taking a seat on the edge of a fountain. Above them stands a statue of two nymphs _getting it on_ as he’d like to say; very erotic and shit. “What’s so funny?” he responds, a smirk present on his face, knowing that his laughter makes people double over in hysterics.

“Your laugh-,” he cackles, “dude, that laugh is everything, oh my god! I love it.” Dream takes a seat on the ledge of the fountain a few inches away from him, shyly, like approaching a bird. After his giggles calm down, George scoots next to him almost immediately with a sly smile on his face. “So,” he faces Dream, “let me tell you about the totally mature game I play that’ll make you think I’m super cool. And you definitely will _not_ think I’m a loser.” He has this habit of playing with his hands that Dream thinks is fucking adorable, despite his efforts to look more tough.

“Mmm, I’m listening. Still probably isn’t as bad as mine,” he rests his head into his hand and gazes at George’s expressions, hoping he doesn’t look as starstruck and soft for him as he actually is. He’s usually good at keeping a straight-face but something about George makes his knees weak, not to mention the sight of him in a thicket of greenery; all sparkly and lily-white.

“Here it comes…,” he says and follows it with a suspenseful drumming sound from his hands on the ceramic surface, to which Dream has to laugh. “Are you ready?” Dream nods, unable to knock the smile off of his face. “Despite being a fully-fledged adult, I still play….Minecraft,” he hardly gets the words out from restraining his laughter.

Dream’s mouth gapes open comically, along with his eyes which grow larger in surprise, “you’re lying! There’s actually no way, George.” He’s near shouting and a few birds flap away in surprise.

“No way...that I’m a loser?” he grins and shoos away a random bug buzzing near them.

“No! Like, as in, no way that we both play the same game as like, adults who shouldn’t be playing Minecraft!” 

George looks at him in the eyes, eyebrows knitted together. “Wait-,” he puts his head in his hands, hiding his loud and sudden snickers, “that’s actually so funny but so sad and also, really shocking? What the fuck, Dream. Stop being so-,” he runs out of words to describe his feelings.

“Perfect for you?” Dream raises his eyebrows, jokingly. And before he can get another word out, George yells out a “yes, that!” 

His smile falters and he’s robbed of his previous flirtatious charm when a heady feeling arises in his gut mixed with a sudden shot of heat to his cheeks. “Huh?” he coughs out and his voice betrays him with an obvious fragility that George definitely hears. Then, Dream holds his breath, because suddenly everything sounds so loud. George blinks at him, thousands of words hidden beneath his tongue, yet none of which come out.

“Fuck, I-,” George lets out.

“George-”

“I meant if you were a girl, like, we’d be a perfect match,” he interrupts, a little aggressive. He doesn’t look into his eyes, too preoccupied with swatting the bugs around them. 

The stupid plummeting feeling comes too instantly, drying out his throat. He’s reminded of Savannah, his pathetic attempts at love, and his self-hatred; like it’s a flavour that he can taste at the tip of his tongue. The high of their shared laughter dies instantly. 

“Yeah,” replies Dream, and it sounds chewed up and spit out, tired and dead. He gives into the nagging self-deprecation resounding in his bones and casually adds, “I’ve got a girlfriend, so maybe it wouldn’t be such a good match.”

He looks over at a water fountain and becomes transfixed in the way that the water flows so smoothly, without any obstruction. It’s quiet now, the chattering of birds cutting into their shared silence. George is still, probably from over-thinking. 

“What?” George questions, shaky, and cuts into the sounds of nature around them. 

It’s stupid because Dream imagines that there’s some god awful tinge of love in the way he says it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> HOW DID YOU FEEL ABT THAT?? any desires for the next chapters or questions? 
> 
> Also to any1 reading this, I command you once again, do NOT share this with anyone in the fic or I Will haunt you, no questions asked. Okay cool, bye B^)


	3. Thieves Like Us

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So uhhhh rating change and it’s really long, whoopsies. Also i’m renaming chapters after songs by New Order heeheehee

☆.｡.:* .｡.:*☆. 

George is an idiot and a scaredy-cat and every bad thing in the book that you can list off when picturing the word, coward. But when he feels that kick of ice in his blood and the simmering hatred he feels for himself all at once, the instinctive feeling to run away hits him like a train. In truth, every beat of his heart thumps with temptation— _tell him that you think he looks pretty when the light hits him, ask him if he feels that way too, make it known that everything about him is exhilarating and he’s the most radiant thing you’ve seen in years._

Overwhelming is the word for it. The light blush staining the bridge of his nose from the wind, the way his hair picks up, his pretty boy charm that makes George feel like he’s tripping on his feet; head over heels, or whatever. 

The hopeful burn in his gut drowns in an instant, like a rock into water. Dream’s got a girlfriend—everyone does these days. He’d look nice next to a girl, George thinks. He wonders when he’ll get an invite to the club, when he’ll feel that _magic moment_ with a girl across the room. Instead, he’s jealous, unknowingly so. 

He figures he deserves it though, an anchor to remind him that his feelings can’t be real; that liking Dream is wrong. But the hurt becomes a nagging pain at the back of his throat, one he can’t swallow and can’t ignore—one that festers. 

In the elongated quiet, Dream sits back, kicks his feet up from the cobblestone, and looks up at the clouds without giving any follow-up to George’s previous questioning. His profile’s nice; one you’d want to run your finger down. 

“The sky is cloudless, today,” he says abruptly but delicate, hands folded around his knees. “Usually, I’m not a big weather guy, like, I stay home all the fucking time so who cares about what it’s like outside? My friends’ll drag me out to play football or to just bike along the boardwalk, but I don’t really find it that fun. This though?” Dream looks at George, then, tenderness lighting up his eyes, a heart-to-heart type of feel about it. “I like this. As in, being here with you. I think it’s fun.”

George’s cheeks burn, a mixed-beverage of sheepish intimacy and anger pumping through his veins. “What’s with the romantic talk? You have a girlfriend, don’t you?” He kicks a small pile of pebbles near his feet, ignoring Dream’s face so he doesn’t say anything stupid.

“Oh?” Dream snickers, annoying and loud this time, dripping with sardonicism, “and here I thought you were only interested in _girl_ Dream. Am I starting to win you over, now?”

“No,” George scoffs. “I’m just surprised that you’re being all soft now. You don’t have to woo me, you know. You can save it for the, uh, missus.” Now that he’s kicked all of the rocks away from his general proximity, he builds his courage to look back at Dream. George feels warm in the sun, warm under Dream’s gaze.

“The _what_?” he chokes. “The _missus_? It’s not like we’re married, what the hell?” he laughs out. George smirks then snickers a bit, losing himself to Dream’s joyous laughter, despite his own embarrassment. 

“Oh, _shut up_ ,” he adds, a smile starting to grow on his face yet again, “it’s not like I know what your relationship is like.” It’s a light-hearted comment at the least but as per his cunning nature, he also uses it as a lee-way into acquiring knowledge about Dream’s girlfriend. Curiosity perhaps, or just plain envy.

“So you’d like to know, huh? Well,” he looks at the time on his phone, “you can ask questions, if _you want_. I’ll give you like five minutes, but that’s all. Cus’ I kinda wanna visit a place around here.” Dream shifts his position so that he’s facing him, cross-legged and bushy-tailed.

“Uh, fine. Only because you’re offering and I’m kinda curious,” George mutters while Dream nods his head in affirmation. He looks up, gears turning in his head to think of a series of questions. “Ok. What’s her name?”

“Starting off with the basics, then? It’s Savannah.”

“How long have you been together?”

“Two years, since senior year of highschool.”

“Oh? So you’re what?” George counts on his fingers, “twenty?”

“Yeah, my birthday was a week ago actually, spent it in a motel in Kansas. Which, lemme just say, kinda sucked. How old are you?”

“Wasn’t supposed to be _the_ _George Questionnaire_ but sure, I guess I’ll let you have this one,” Dream scoffs as a reply. “I’m twenty-one, my birthday’s in December so it’s a while away.”

“No chance you’re older than me,” Dream exclaims, eyebrows darted in disbelief. “You look like you’re at least twenty!” 

George shakes his head in dismissal, “I get that a lot, actually. It’s just my youthful look, y’know?” he tries his hand at a wink and fails, to which Dream snorts. “Ok, shut up. Back to the questions! Have you ever had, like, trouble in paradise?”

Dream’s mouth twitches, a little taken aback, but answers anyways. “Yeah. I’d like to think it’s normal, but…,” he looks away from George and onto a crack in the granite, a bit weary.

“Do you mind me asking, or is that…,” he wanders, forgets to finish his question when observing Dream’s downcast figure.

“No, it’s cool. Uh,” he clears his throat, “remember when we were talking back at the coffee shop?” George nods, “she’s the one who...cheated on me. Yeah.”

George furrows his eyebrows in anger and confusion, emotions spilling over, “And you’re okay with that?”

“Well, who would be?” he sighs, then adds, “of course I’m not. I think it scares me, though. The thought of not being enough, or not measuring up to the other guys she’s fucked. I ask myself all the time, _what am I missing that they have?_ But then when I feel myself getting upset, my quick fix is _hey, well at least she hasn’t broken up with me_. God, that’s pathetic, huh?” He doesn’t move his eyes away from the crack; like if he stares enough, it’ll fix itself. 

“You’re not pathetic, that’s bullshit. I can’t even wrap my head around the fact that it’s been multiple times not once, _jesus_. No one deserves that,” _especially not you_. “And Dream, I think you’re a catch, really. You’re nice, good-looking, and—ugh, this is coming out wrong. Not in like...that way, you know.”

“God, George, stop doing that,” an underlying aggressive tone in the light-hearted way he says it.

“Stop doing what?”

“That thing,” George is still lost and Dream adds, “The _no homo_ thing, it’s okay to compliment dudes without adding that backhanded remark, I dunno, it’s just stupid.”

“How’s it stupid? I just don’t want you to think that I’m…,” he gestures something with his eyes, doesn’t know what it means but hopes it gets the message across. And then Dream’s face screws into something empty, no smile or glint in his eyes.

“Gay?” he blurts out, and the way he says it; all poison-like and angrily, like he’s about to get up and walk off. George tries to say something but is interrupted by Dream saying, “I can’t believe you’re that much of a fucking pussy to not even say it. So what’s your deal then? You don’t want to get confused for someone like that—someone like-,” he stutters and starts to get up from where he’s sitting. And George is once again the biggest asshole in the world, ruining Dream’s vulnerable moment with his cowardice.

“No! I,” he grips onto Dream’s arm, doesn’t pay attention to his facial expression because he’s terrified of people being mad at him, “I just...I can’t-.”

Dream shakes his hand off, hot-headed and pissed, “Cut me a fucking break George, I thought you were cool but fuck off if you really think tha-.”

“I think I’m in fucking denial, okay? I met someone— _fuck,_ ” he feels the prickling in his eyes, that burning of his nose that he knows too well, “I’m scared of it. I just still want to be me? And I get it, okay? I know that it’s not like it’ll change me or who I am but I’m fucking terrified of people treating me differently just because I like...guys. I didn’t even know I did and now I have to tiptoe around everything because I feel like it’s written all over my face!” Dream goes quiet and sits next to him, a bit hesitant while weaning off of his anger.

“Hey, look,” and George faces him, terrified and a bit shaky, “sorry, I kind of jump the gun sometimes when I get pissed. I just thought you were a shitbag homophobe—doesn’t mean what you said was right but...I get it. It’s scary—I found out when I was like seventeen that I was also into guys instead of just girls. Kind of an _oh shit_ moment, right?” Dream bumps his leg into George’s and tries to lighten the mood, guilt lining his voice.

“You’re?” George doesn't continue the rest of his question but Dream nods, knowingly. “My friends are all straight and so was I until...yeah. It’s not their fault but I think that if I told them, it’d be weird cus’ they wouldn’t be used to it.” George sounds fragile—cracked—and it’s foreign to his own ears. 

“You’d be surprised at how accepting people are. Not that I know your friends but I felt the same way. I kind of realized at a party, like—it’s actually really funny how it happened—but I was in this crowd of people. And I saw this guy; he was with his friends and I thought to myself, _why does he look so kissable?_ And it wasn’t just me thinking he was good-looking but it was something more, I felt it in the pit of my stomach. It scared me so fucking bad, George.” Looking at Dream, glowing in the soft light of the sun, he understands him too well. “I asked my friends if sometimes they felt like that, if they look at guys and feel it; that fluttery infatuation type deal. And of course they said no but… they didn’t treat me differently. I was really happy about that, and maybe you have those types of people, too. People who’ll accept you. If you don’t, at least I can be that person, y’know?” 

George feels washed out, in the good way, like all the shit in his head—the hurt, the fear, all that—it’s at least mutual, a breath of relief at the end of a self-deprecating battle. He thinks about Sapnap and the others, how they’re probably worried as hell, but because they care. “Must’ve been a hot ass guy,” he jokes.

“What? Oh, him! Yeah, I don’t really remember his face, though. I was blasted drunk—like, who knew hard lemonade could taste so much like actual lemonade?”

“I relate. One time, I chugged a huge glass of rum and I woke up cuddled next to my best friend, under the bed. God, I was so hungover that I had to call off from work that day.”

“Ha! I can’t even imagine you drunk, it’s probably hilarious,” his sentence veers off into a comfortable silence, to which he bumps George’s shoulder. “But, seriously...I want you to know that you’ll be okay, even though it’s hard to grasp right now. It’s a shitty thing to go through alone.”

Dream is sweet; a little rash but he’s passionate about the things he cares about, an attribute George loves. He’s about to reply but an overwhelming sensation sweeps over him, and he feels his tears glide down from his eyes without him knowing, so hot on his cheeks. “Sorry. I don’t know why I,” and then his voice cracks and tries to save face by hunching over.

“George—shit, can I?” Dream opens his arms a bit, worry written all over him. And George nods, unsure of what he’s meaning to do but he trusts Dream—too much, maybe.

Dream envelops him in a hug, and George feels his stupid heart go wild; tries his hardest to quiet it so Dream won’t hear the loud thumping mantra. He wants to say something, but the words die in the back of his throat, transforming into a broken sob. Dream runs his left hand down his back in repetitive motions, trying to soothe him. And George keeps crying, dying his sweater with a wet patch of tears. His brain’s in disarray, too many emotions running around like clockwork, but Dream keeps him anchored in his frenzy. 

It stays like that for a while; Dream’s warmth buzzing off of him and George’s heart jammed in his throat, head buried in his chest, until his tears have dried. His voice comes in vibrations, so deep when he’s next to him like this, “you okay, now?” George doesn’t feel like answering, too caught up in the embrace, Dream’s sun-dried scent so intoxicating in his gloom. He grunts and begrudgingly lets him go, a little giddy and high off the pheromones. 

“Sorry about the sweater,” he sniffles and points to the wet splotch, eyes still puffy.

“Nah, it’s fine. It’s just a sweater, plus, it’s worth it if it helps you out, even a little.”

“I don’t even cry that easily, I swear,” he sniffles.

“It’s cool. Now c’mon, let’s go. I know what’ll cheer you up,” he launches himself off the ledge and holds his hand out to George. He looks at his hand, it’s large, a little calloused but warm when George holds it. There’s an obvious difference; George’s fingers are more lithe where Dream’s are thicker. 

He likes to think they fit quite nicely together, a lovesick afterthought.

☆.｡.:* .｡.:*☆.

They’re somewhere in Central Park, a small amusement park tucked away in a crowd of trees, and it smells like candied apples and popcorn. The sun is starting to set, pinks and purples dying everything in that neon glow. There’s a lot of people around, some playing the carnival games, and others riding the few attractions scattered around. 

“This reminds me of back home, with all the rides and shit,” Dream beams, his hand around a paper cone of blue cotton candy that matches his head in size. “Look, look,” he sticks his tongue out and it’s a bright blue, “I got your favorite color.”

“Ew, no one wants to see your tongue,” he smacks his shoulder and Dream giggles, “also, give me some. Maybe American cotton candy tastes different.” He plucks a sizable piece off and pops it in his mouth, to which Dream groans.

“You’re hogging it, George! Look,” he points the headless cone in his direction, “you ate almost all of it in one bite, you monster!” 

“Mmm, tastes the same. I guess America doesn’t have a leg up on England after all,” he says after swallowing it, Dream still looking at him with an angered stare. 

“Apologize to my dead cotton candy, I’m still grieving, you absolute jerk.” He fakes a sniffle, and looks at George like he committed the worst crime known to mankind. “You gotta make it up to me now, you practically murdered this thing in cold blood.”

“This is unfair, you’re falsely accusing me! It wasn’t even that big of a bite, it’s like mostly sugar!” 

“Oh come on, George. Lying doesn’t erase your crimes,” Dream stops in his tracks and excitedly says, “oh my god, George. Let’s do Crossbow Shoot, I love playing this game,” He walks off into the crowd, trusting that George follows after him. And of course he does, because of the teenage escapades that Dream reminds him of; fresh air, graffiti on abandoned houses, and first-kisses. It’s all transitory, sure, but when he’s with Dream, he can’t help but feel that youthful burst of energy seeping into his bones, like he could feel like this forever. 

Dream hands the man behind the counter one of his tokens, and readies himself at the back of the toy gun, bending his knees and closing one of his eyes in concentration. “Watch this, I bet that I’ll shoot every single one of these targets without even trying.”

“Mmhmm, I don’t believe it until I see it,” he responds and leans on the counter in anticipation.

Dream laughs confidently and a little tune starts playing to accompany the game, panels flipping up and down with red and white targets. At the start, Dream shoots each target perfectly in succession, but when the panels start flipping faster, he falls off of his game. He misses a substantial amount of targets, and the music comes to a stop. Dream’s jaw goes slack, clearly pissed off. 

“Sorry, sir. You missed too many targets to qualify for one of the prizes,” the man responds and George stiffens, holding in his laughter with a hand to his mouth.

“What?! George, why are you laughing? That was obviously rigged, I’m trying again.” He pulls out another coin angrily and slaps it onto the table. 

“You sure about that Dream? I think you were just…dare I say, _bad_?” He watches as Dream snaps his head back in frustration, ticked off and fueled with the desire to win.

“Ohhh, you’re gonna be eating your words, you shithead,” the music starts once more, and George devotes the passing time to stare at Dream’s face, now laminated in lime green flashing lights. His eyelashes cast a pop-ish shadow on his cheeks, and his freckles glow like lit firecrackers. There’s some sweat collecting at his brow, and George resists the urge to wipe it off with his thumb. He cancels out all the noise in his ears, tunnel-vision closing in on the cascading colors reflecting off of Dream’s eyes, and just as scheduled, he feels that obnoxious stirring in his gut. Even his hands are pretty; stupidly large and veiny, hulk-like grip on the gun making everything so much more prominent. He wants to kiss his fingers, the back of his hands, maybe everything. Dream makes him dizzy, and he’s hooked on the feeling, strangely enamored with everything he does.

“ _Uh, George_?” calls out Dream and pulls him back down from his high. 

“What’s up?” George replies but it sounds dazed, and a little star-struck.

“You spaced out. Anyways, I had to give up. He ran me dry of all my coins, the fucking asshole. But look what I got,” and he shakes a medium-sized plush of a blue penguin wearing a bowtie in his face. “Isn’t it cute? It kinda reminds me of you, I dunno. You English people seem like the bow-wearing type.”

“What the hell, lemme see,” he responds, and grabs it out of Dream’s hands. “How’d you even get the guy to give you this in the first place? I thought you didn’t qualify for prizes with your score.”

Dream ignores his question and presses on about the plushie, “it’s the little dude from Sanrio, do you recognize it? It’s Tuxedo Sam, and look! He has little hearts as blush, that’s so fucking cute, George.” 

“Dream.” He looks up from the stuffed penguin, and stares into his eyes.

“Okay, well...I guess he finally _realized_ that the game was rigged, and gave this to me as consolation,” he pauses and adds, “or...he was tired of my complaining and just gave it to me to shut me up.”

“So, it was the second one. You’re such a…,” he struggles with a word and Dream answers him, promptly.

“You know, everyone always says I’m such a Leo but I never understand it, like, what’s that even mean?” 

“I don’t know anything about zodiac signs but it probably means that you’re a huge pissbaby,” laughs George and Dream gasps comically.

“Oh, come on! You know what, give back Tuxedo Sam, you don’t deserve him,” Dream replies and snatches away the plushie. He looks into the embroidered eyes of the plushie and whispers, “don’t listen to George, he’s a dick.”

“I’m a dick?! You literally forced a man to give you that thing to shut you up!”

“Whatever, _George_ ,” his eyebrows perk up at the sight of a food stand, “holy shit, they’re selling hard lemonade. This could be my second chance to redeem myself and see if I could hold down my liquor.” 

“Listen, if you end up not passing out, I’ll be surprised.”

“Chill out, I’m only getting one. _And_ , this is like the one day we’re possibly ever hanging out. We have to drink to that, George,” Dream pleads, giving him a wide smile in excitement.

“Fine, fine…I’ll join you, then. I’m only doing this because I kinda wanna see if you’ll get drunk off of only one of those,” George snickers, and follows Dream to the food stand. 

☆.｡.:* .｡.:*☆.

George didn’t prepare for what would happen if he got wasted, along with Dream. They made a deal to see who would get to the gates to the ferris wheel faster, and George is behind, by a lot. He blames Dream’s long legs and the way he looks so stupidly attractive from the back, making George halt to a stop and trip on his feet. 

He meets Dream at the gate to the ferris wheel, and his leg is bouncing in anticipation, all smiley and breath-taking. “Hi, again,” George mutters shyly, mostly because his brain is screaming, _Dream, Dream, Dream, Dream_ , in loops, and _god,_ he doesn’t think he’s ever ached so bad for someone. He thinks if he could, he’d make a house out of his embrace and live there, listen to his laughs like it’s music, and kiss his freckles individually until his lips get tired and sore. 

It’s an intense temptation, and George is just along for the ride, going around and around like he’s on a Tilt-A-Hurl, strapped in and smitten.

“Why if it isn’t George, fancy meeting you here,” he hums, and raises his eyebrows. And two can play at that game, whatever drunken game it is.

“Why if it isn’t my dear Dream, how I’ve longed to see you again,” George replies in a high-pitched voice, with the back of his hand to his head, trying to replicate a damsel in distress. Dream snorts loudly in efforts to suppress his laugh, clearly tipsy.

“Oh George, I’ve forgotten how beautiful-,” he wheezes and continues, “your voice is.” 

“Why thank,” and then his voice cracks and he’s coughing, to which Dream responds by doubling over and cackling. It would be loud if not for the music blasting throughout the park, along with the screams of people riding the attractions. Once his coughs settle somewhat, he yells out, “shut the fuck up!”

But they’re both laughing, stupidly drunk on happiness and hard lemonade.

☆.｡.:* .｡.:*☆.

George looks out over the cart, a light feeling blooming in his chest, high in the sky where people can’t hear them. “There’s something about ferris wheels that feels odd, like damn, are we really that small?” 

Dream’s at his side, gazing out at the crowd as well, with a lazy smile; body heat buzzing off of him, and his hand so close to his.

“I think it’s comforting, like, all of these people have their own individual lives, and so do we. And somehow, we’re all here at the same time. That’s pretty neat,” he murmurs and faces George, twinkling like a star. Follows it by saying, “it’s like how I met you. Same place, same time, and ta-daaa, here we are.” Dream’s a sight; washed out by the neon lights of the sunset, but so real like this, all yellow and uniform. 

“Yeah, I’m glad it happened that way,” he admits, honesty flowing out of him so easily when paired with intoxication. Suddenly, he feels a cold dribble on his cheek, followed by another and another. His eyes widen and he pushes his hand out of the cart to be met with a flux of rain tapping against his hand. “Rain? But there’s barely any clouds, what the fuck?”

“Huh. It’s rare but I guess it happens, sometimes,” Dream replies, and then yelps when the downpour changes its angle and starts hitting them at full speed. “Holy fuck! I’m too drunk for this shit, George!”

“It’s cold as balls!” screams George, scooting next to Dream in an effort to warm himself up. He feels the movement of Dream’s arms, but can’t really see what he’s doing from the water blinding his periphery. Once George gets his eyes to a less irritated state with his constant rubbing, he spots the skin of Dream’s arms. Then he feels heavy fabric over his head and there’s laughter in his ears.

George looks over and his jersey is taut and clinging to every curve and indent of his body—cold water making his nipples devilishly poke out. He looks good—like one of those sexed up football players in a dirty magazine. It’s no surprise that he can laugh at this situation considering his physique.

“Phbtttf, what’s up with that face?” Dream asks between laughs. He shakes his hands a little—water adhering to his fingertips and dripping onto the floor of the cart. Then, he lifts up his wet jersey a little and starts wringing it; squeezing, twisting, kneading—a solid attempt to wrench as much water as he can. Just a peak of tan skin’s got George blushing, mind stunned and delayed from the alcohol.

“You—uh, thanks,” George pulls the sweater over his head, his head swarming with dirty thoughts. “But, aren’t you cold?”

“Yeah, which is why we’re sharing the sweater,” and then he pulls half of the sweater over his head, so close and sticky with water. He feels a swoop in his gut, hyper aware of the way their thighs touch. It’s like getting shocked and suddenly, he’s pulling away. 

And then he gets bombarded with rain, an indication of his poor decision-making. He quickly moves back under Dream’s sweater and too close to his body. 

“Did I do something?” he whispers, and because of their shared proximity, their breaths start mingling together; hot and heavy. 

“No, course not,” George tries to say firmly but it comes out as a sharp intake of breath, a fail on his part. Dream turns to look at him, and he’s chewing on his bottom-lip, just as nervous. “Fuck, this stupid water’s got me shaking, sorry. I’m regretting the lemonade.”

“Yeah, wait-,” and Dream’s fingers are on his forehead, feather-light touch swiping the hair out of his face, and it stings, the good type. “Is that better? Your hair was dripping all over your face, so...”

He feels bold from the alcohol, then, and reaches for Dream’s face, slowly and softly. “Yours is too,” he slicks back his wet hair, and the touch is electrifying. Up close, like this, his eyes are so golden, pupils all blown out in shock. George has it memorized like a prayer. 

His hand stills in apprehension, taking in the fact that he’s touching Dream. His skin is so soft, like the underside of a rose petal, and the flush of his cheeks—it’s a provocative sight that’s got him yearning for more, an insatiable desire pushing down on his chest.

He slowly glides his thumb down his cheek, delicately, like Dream is a fragile-thing, a breeze away from caving in. He hears Dream’s breath hitch, followed by a hard swallow, and it travels down his spine and into his pants—tension making him greedy and impulsive.

“Your freckles—I think they’re so pretty, Dream,” he slurs in a hushed tone, “I’ve always wanted to touch them, I guess it’s a pretty dumb thought, but…” Dream whimpers in response and George’s thumb continues downwards until he reaches the curve of his lips. His brain’s on overdrive, filled with that same mantra of _Dream, Dream, Dream._ Dream is staring at him, and his eyes are so much darker now, a pleading gesture in the way his eyebrows quirk. And George is so weak, so gone, that he slides over his plush bottom lip, and stills. Their eyes are frozen, staring into each other as communication, like there’s meaning in the way Dream’s eyes wobble. And Dream allows George’s fingers to pull his lips apart, so lewd and tantalizing in the way he does it, blue tongue so vibrant against his teeth. 

He’s a goner, nothing else existing to him except for Dream’s body against his.

“Maybe it’s just me but,” he looks down at his lips and back at Dream’s eyes, talking from the sex-crazed and tipsy part of his mind, “I’ve always wondered what blue tastes like...” 

The rain is amplified, making loud tapping sounds when interacting with the sweater cushioned above their heads. “George, _please,_ ” Dream mewls, and it dries out his throat instantly with the way he says it, pliant and needy—so fucking hot in the cold rain that it’s scalding.

He leans in; Dream’s lips are velvety against his, cracked from the liquor, and he smells like alcohol-induced lemonade and cherry-flavored chapstick. The kiss is overwhelmingly gentle, a testy thing, just so they could take each other in. And that mindless voice kicks in, so loud in his head.

_You’re like cosmic dust, so stupidly dream-like, just like your name. I feel like I could love you._

George backs away slowly, stunned and gushing. Dream’s eyes flutter open, half-lidded and awe-struck. “Was that-,” George whispers but is halted to a stop by Dream’s lips on his once more, loosely this time and more vulgar, wet from his tongue, wet from the rain. Dream coaxes his way past his lips, commanding in the way that he’s desperately licking into his mouth, drawing out an obscene moan from George. “Dream, _shit_.” And then Dream stops promptly, and George whines angrily, opening his eyes to him smirking.

“Ride’s over, we can’t stay in here all day, idiot,” he replies, voice a bit huskier from the kissing. His heart swells, basking in the way that he can render Dream to that state. 

Blue’s still his favorite color, for other reasons now, too.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> How we feeling? Also this fic is gonna be way longer than i planned lmao! I’m really enjoying writing it so far and I hope you all do too!
> 
> ***Also fixed some mistakes I made because I am a dummy! Added the date as well, and don’t worry this is tagged slow build for a reason LMAOOOO. It’s probably gonna turn out to be like 11 chapters


	4. Ceremony

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> almost the end of an era. ayo pour it pour it up. next chapter the gang is breaking up and then ,, time skip ... ooooo

☆.｡.:* .｡.:*☆

“George,” Dream chuckles, so _in_ the moment, without any qualms about the after, “my fucking socks are wet, oh my god.”

“So are mine, ugh.” 

“Fuckin’ cart was ass deep in water.”

George squints at the sky, twilight eating at the orange residue of the sunset, less colorful and more sparkly, “At least the rain stopped… Also! Did you see the ride operator? He didn’t even flinch when it started raining.”

“Carnies dude..., ‘m sure they’ve unlocked the secret texts of life itself. Like really, what’re they made of and why do they look like they want everyone dead?”

“Well as you said before, American minimum wage, probably. Or they’re actually zombies, I’d think that’d be more interesting.”

“Bingo, now you’ve got it.”

They’re by a vending machine near the outskirts of the park, sobering themselves up with bottled water. George takes a sip of water and his Adam's apple bobs about, making Dream feel this prominent wave of attraction in his bones, turning him to jelly in the heat. They’re tiptoeing around the problem, the obvious elephant in the room looming around in hot-spells. And no matter how much water Dream drinks, he can’t get the drunken thoughts out of his head; thunderous, rambunctious things rattling about. _I’m so fucking weak for you, can you feel it too? I want to kiss you again and again til’ all you can taste is the cotton candy on my tongue, even when I’m gone._

He downs the rest of the water bottle, and George points his eyes at him, fascinated. The moonlight paints a halo into his hair, the refraction of green light from the machine casting an electric glow. “You good?”

“Dandy,” Dream replies, letting out a satisfying breath, relishing in the way George giggles afterwards. He flicks some dirt off of his jeans, avoids eye-contact to look less caring, “So, question, George. That kiss, what’d you mean by it?”

He says it in a dead-way, tries his hardest to rip the hidden meaning of his words into shreds. _Act like it’s just idle-conversation_ , the voice in his head begs.

“Jumping into it, yeah?” George takes another swig, a momentary escape in the form of long gulps. He wipes his wet lips, “Honestly, I’m curious. I’ve never kissed a guy, and I wanted to know. It just felt right in the moment.” George’s hair billows in the wind, and he cradles some loose strands behind his ear. He feels something ugly bubble up in his throat but swallows it down.

“It was an experimental thing, then?”

“Yeah...is that okay? Can’t we just kiss without really thinking about what anything means?” 

It’s honest, and Dream’s too invested in _this—the here and the now_ —than the implications of what it all means. Love can’t fester in a day, so surely just an experience is something Dream can settle with. 

Closed eyes and empty touches; it couldn’t mean that much, right?

“That’s okay for me,” Dream concludes, and throws the empty bottle in the recycling bin next to them, the sound resounding with a heavy _thunk._ They start walking, less caring about their destination, but rather, more interested in their idle chatter.

The conversation moves, as everything eventually does.

☆.｡.:* .｡.:*☆

Times Square is something that the poets and singers write about, the general consensus being that it’s booming with life, lights, and love. But he can’t pay attention; his mind is filled with the memory of George’s lips on his; infinitely brighter and twice as lively but without that four letter word. 

They’re chattering about alcohol, a stupid conversation topic to accompany the memory of their stupid drunkiness prior.

“You know, that reminds me. I usually hate getting drunk. I think it makes me a bit paranoid because I start doing this thing where I overthink absolutely everything; life, death, time,” George murmurs, getting lost in the night time openness. “My friend told me about this one time I got drunk—it was the same time I chugged the rum, actually—and apparently, I just started crying to him about some person I met and how they could’ve just died the next day and I’d never be able to see them again. I don’t even remember who they were, I think that’s the sad part.”

There’s loads of advertisements playing on the various screens adorning the large buildings. One’s about a new Coach perfume, and another displays the time, seven-thirty, already. It’s unsettling; that as he stands here, the time is slipping through his fingers like grains of sand. 

“I have thoughts like that too. Just a few seconds ago, I was thinking about how time-limits give everything so much more importance. I mean, if you were to only have one day left with someone you love, you’d make the most of it, right? You suddenly get this mindset that every moment counts. And when you think back on it, it’s as if that specific memory remains untainted by worldliness and all that material shit.”

He likes them like this, just the ebb and flow of idyllic conversation topics sliding off their tongues—questions and theories about the world, the universe, and everything in between. There’s this undercoating of yearning, both of them desperate to find solace in each other that they couldn’t find in themselves.

“Isn’t that kind of like us? I’d like that, I think.” George looks up again; this time, at the rising moon blurred by smoke, “to just make believe that we’ll die in the morning, without any of these feelings fizzing out over time. I’d really hate that. I want you to stay like this in my mind, do you get what I’m saying?” He rubs his face, nervously. “I’m so fucking honest when it’s past daytime, holy fuck,” George bumps into the brick wall behind them and leans on it, back pressed against rough edges.

“I think I do,” his heart hammers. “So how about we make a deal?” 

“Mmm, a deal? I’m listening,” George nods, closing his eyes and humming in agreement.

“This might sound weird but I’d like to think we’re past that. I meant what I said before, y’know, back at the train station? That this can be like a time machine and you’re going back in time to see what’d happen if you took a chance.” George’s eyes are still closed but he makes these little facial expressions to show that he’s still following his train of thought. “Well, let’s keep it that way. I don’t want whatever this is to fizzle, so let’s just avoid it by not texting or calling each other after this. We can just meet up six months from now and carry on from there. But right here, right now, I don’t want us to worry about what comes after. We’re just living in the moment.”

George laughs then, face scrunching up in this adorable way that makes his legs weak. “So romantic, aren’t we? So what, then? We die when the clock strikes twelve?”

“Yeah, kinda like Cinderella, I guess.” 

“And who’s who?” George quirks his eyebrows, interested in Dream’s upcoming reply. He notices he’s clinging onto the plushie he won back at the carnival game. It’s the only thing that hadn’t gotten wet and Dream secretly wonders how he kept it that way.

“You’re Cinderella, obviously. I’m Prince Charming, can’t you see it in my face?” He gives him that prize-winning Dream smile, white-teeth and all. George responds with a grimace.

“Me, Cinderella?” He looks down at himself, bewildered and ticked off. 

It’s a funny parallel; Dream filling the role of Prince Charming effortlessly with the whole nickname deal and the infatuation with someone he’s bound to never see again. Glass slippers are wet kisses—fragile and fleeting. What’s that saying, again? _If the shoe fits?_ George’s lips feel right against his; does that suffice as a glass slipper?

“Or, you could be one of the little mice, I’m kind of torn,” Dream replies, cursing his thoughts, and George flushes angrily. “Hey, let’s get something to eat, I’m starving,” he adds as an afterthought once he feels his stomach succumbing to hunger. 

“As long as we eat from one of those food trucks. Anything else is way too expensive and we’re both kind of broke at the moment,” they continue walking—this time, in the search for a food truck. That is until a woman walks up to them, stacks of beaded jewelry swallowing up her lithe frame. They twinkle so wondrously, the colored projections from the large screens and the neon signs making them multi-colored.

“Hello sirs, would you like your palms read? Five dollars for a reading, please.” 

“Yes, sure.” Dream is enamored with things like this, a love for the mystic sitting heavy on his heart. He fishes out a five dollar bill and gives it to the woman, and George looks at him a bit strangely, clearly taken aback. 

He offers up his palm and she examines it thoroughly, flipping it over a few times in concentration. “Mmm, yes. I see. You’ve been on a very long voyage, desperate to find yourself in unfamiliar territory. Part of you feels like you have, but you’re wary because of past experiences. You’re an adventurer, yes? Very ambitious to make sure you never fail. You’re terrified of failure.” Dream nods his head while she speaks, absorbed in her words. “You are interested in success and you feel like this is the only way you can find happiness in yourself. And you will be successful—this is the path that destiny has carved for you,” she goes quiet, then adds, “you must allow yourself to delve into the uncertainties of life and face the odds of failure. Only then will you find the happiness you crave.”

George stands at his side awkwardly, and the woman looks over to him. “And this is a stranger to you, right?”

“Yeah, I guess you could say that,” Dream chuckles, looking over to George. She reaches for his palm, and despite George’s annoyance, he gives it to her. She checks it over, this time more focused. 

“You will be okay. He is trying his best.” She smiles, and lets go of his palm, “that is all.”

“Thank you, I enjoyed that. Here,” he hands her another five dollars, the last of his pocket change, “for the road.” She takes it and thanks him.

While they begin to walk off, she adds, “never forget that you are both stars. In the end, we are all stardust; the seas, the moon, the Earth. Whenever you feel unbelonging, remember, we are conduits of cosmic dust; the universe lives in us just as we live in it.”

George gets visibly more angry as he walks alongside Dream, face contorting into a pout. Dream holds in a huff of laughter, awaiting his blow-up when they’re at a reasonable distance away from the woman. And just as he hypothesized, George shouts “I don’t get it, Dream! I really don’t understand how people willingly give their money to palm readers when they’re probably just making up something to make you feel better. Like, astrology and all that; isn’t it all just tactics to rub your ego?”

“Sure, but I think it’s nice. I like what she said and even if it was all lies and nonsense, I found truth in it and it makes me inclined to change myself to be better.” 

George speaks over him, “and like why was she so condescending when she read my palm? What does it mean that _I’m trying_? I didn’t even tell her to read my palm, yet she did it anyways. I’d love for someone to give up their money and ask her for a reading only for her to tell them that everyday will be boring, just like the last, and that they aren’t ever going to be important. Ugh, it just ticks me off!” He finishes brooding by looking over to Dream and expecting an answer to his onslaught of insults.

“I’m certain you’re just jealous that she didn’t have anything overly positive to say,” Dream scoffs, pressing his buttons.

“What? I just think that it’s more plausible to live in the present than to ponder about the future. People like that—they just capitalize on your worries. Like _hey, are you scared of where you’ll end up in twenty years? Let me slap on this band-aid of delusions to make you feel better. Oh, by the way, that’ll be twenty bucks!_ It’s shitty.” 

Dream takes note that George is a bit of a cynic, comfortable with normalcy and the problems of present-day things. On the other hand, Dream’s always been scared of his future, impulsively jumping from tactic to tactic until he’s comfortable with what’ll come from it. They’re different in that way. 

“So I guess this is our first _actual_ argument of the night?” Dream questions, a bit smugly and without any malice. 

“Actually, yeah. I was talking over you, sorry. I just hate the thought of losing cash because of some people who are probably just making things up,” he frowns. 

A group of people stop them in their tracks, posing by the doors to Radio City Music Hall to memorialize their trip to New York. Dream wheezes a bit, noting that it’s a very on-brand tourist thing to do, with an outreached selfie stick and matching t-shirts. George gazes at him in silence, both of them in a silent mutual agreement that it’s pretty fucking funny. The group breaks out of their positions and huddles over the camera to spectate the photo. Dream mouths, “I think we were in the back of their picture,” to George and they both start chuckling.

Lost in their daze, a woman who was part of the group walks up to them and questions, “are y’all waiting to ask someone if you could get your picture taken? I can take it if you’d like!” She has a thick southern accent and a cozy way of speaking—definitely a woman who would bake you cookies and heat up some tea for you if you were sad.

“Uh,” George awkwardly starts and Dream saves him from the spotlight by handing her his phone.

“Yes, that’d be so nice! Thanks for offering,” he replies sweetly while George looks both ways in confusion. He tries to whisper to Dream in panic but he ignores him, opting to lead him to the front of the doors instead. Dream throws a hand over George’s shoulder, and he feels him shudder beneath him, shocked at the sudden touch. 

“Y’all are adorable, say _cheeeeeeese_!” She elongates the word charismatically and positions the camera in different directions to get a variety of photos. They both freeze in their positions; at first, smiling awkwardly but once Dream feels George melt into his side, the grins feel more natural. “Okay boys, all done!” 

Once George moves away, Dream feels the brush of his hair at the bottom of his chin. He finds himself feeling empty without his body at his side. The woman hands him his phone as Dream says his thanks. 

But he doesn’t look at the photo, scared to find that four letter word scattered somewhere amongst his eyes.

☆.｡.:* .｡.:*☆

George is enjoying a spoonful of his chicken over rice that they ordered from the nearby Halal truck. He keeps making these satisfied and comical moaning sounds that urge Dream to keep kicking him under their table. “Stop that, you animal!”

He laughs loudly, kicking him back in retaliation.“Mmm, Dream! Wait, I think someone is calling…,” he says suspiciously and Dream tilts his head. He continues by making the sounds of a telephone, “drrr! drrr! ring! ring!”

“What the fuck?” Dream smiles and kicks him again, earning another laugh from George as he rubs at his own leg in the spot where he kicked him.

“You have to pick up! ring! ring!” He has his hand next to his ear, his thumb and pinky sticking up obnoxiously and forming a makeshift phone.

“Ugh, fine, fine,” he copies his hand gesture and continues, “hello?”

“Hello Nick, what’s up? How are you?” George looks into Dream’s eyes with fondness and he wants to kiss him again. This time, he’ll do it with vigor, like they’ll die in the morning.

“Um...I’m doing fine, how about you? How’s New York? Did you get there okay?” 

“I’m fine! Sorry about not calling you once I got off the train, by the way. I met this guy and we went around New York together. Actually, he’s still here.” 

“You did what?! Are you insane? Why would you get off the train and walk around with a guy who you don’t even know?” 

“Fuck, maybe I am crazy. But...he’s really cool, I think you’d like him. There was something about him and I can’t really put a finger on it...Do you believe in fate, Nick? That there’s a moment when you meet someone and you just know that you were supposed to meet each other at that specific instance? You know I’m not one to believe in that stuff, but…”

“But?” Dream’s breath skips and he matches George in their subtle staring competition. It’s then that he realizes that the woman was right; the stardust in George’s eyes become more apparent the more he looks into them. We must be made of stardust, after all, or maybe George’s cosmic belonging is just more obvious when he’s bathing in the moonlight.

“I’m terrible at being honest, you know that. But, when I’m with him, I can see the truth in stuff like that. And he has tanned skin and these pretty freckles dotting his cheeks. His hair comes down to his neck—it’s blonde, actually—and it curls around his face. He’s really attractive but what pulls me in is the way he speaks. He’s passionate and head-strong...It’s a stupid thing to say but I think he shines like the sun. It’s like I felt the sun burning my tongue when he kissed me. Would you reckon he thinks of me that way, too?”

“So you kissed him, huh? And of course he does, George. I think you’re hard not to like. I think he’s crazy about you, actually,” his tone goes softer and his mouth feels dry, aching to press his lips to his once more. 

“Yeah? You think he’ll prove it?” George asks, daring, eyes still locked onto his. Dream feels the world tip over, an apocalyptic overturning in a mere second. 

“I know he will,” he loosens his fingers that were next to his ear and instead, traces the knuckles on George’s hand that’s lying on the table. George gasps, quietly. “Can I kiss you?”

He nods, fluttering his eyes shut, and Dream closes the space between them by slotting their lips together. It’s a devouring kiss, wild rushes of breath and small gasps. George rubs his face with his fingers and laughs against his lips. Dream replies by kissing him a little harder, giddy and stupidly addicting. “Mmm,” he pulls back, hand still stroking his warm cheeks, “do you really like me? I’m not annoying to you?”

“You _were_ pretty annoying when I was getting my palm read. You’re an argumentative little shit, I’ll give you that. I’m the same way, though, so I can't get mad at you,” he rubs his nose against his, soft and loving, pulling a laugh from George. It’s dangerous, acting like this is something more than experimentation. He doesn’t want to cross George’s boundaries but he’s also confused on where to draw the line. 

His lines must’ve melted away a long time ago, washed away by George’s tongue. 

“Okay,” George pecks him on the side of his mouth, “no more,” on the underside of his cheek, “fighting,” and on his closed lips. He keeps peppering kisses on random parts of his face and it makes Dream’s stomach turn delightfully. “Kiss me again?” he sighs and Dream nods, reaching out to knit his fingers into the vacant spaces of George’s own. George squeezes back tightly as if to reassure him and say, _I’m here. I like this. I want this._ “Kissing you shouldn't feel this good— _god.”_

“Mm, not God,” he whispers against his lips, “just Dream.”

☆.｡.:* .｡.:*☆

The moon casts a pale light on their figures as they lay in a patch of grass, watching a series of boats pass by. The ocean sparkles before them, despite its murkiness. Night time makes everything beautiful, it seems. 

Occasionally, George will turn over and steal a kiss or two from Dream’s lips and then drift back into their conversation. 

“What would you be doing if you didn’t come to New York?” Dream asks as he stares up at the sky. There’s no stars in sight, the cityscape causing an onslaught of smog that blurs out their presence.

“ _What would I be doing?_ ” George asks himself, pondering a bit. “I’d probably be taking care of my father back in England. He’s pretty sick but I doubt he won’t make it through the treatments. He’s a real fighter. I’d say I probably got my argumentative nature from him.” Dream rolls over on his side to stare at George’s silhouette, a thin line of white light outlining his figure. He’s too pretty, the kind of pretty that hurts.

“That’s adorable, I’d like to see the resemblance,” Dream responds with a smile on his face and picks some grass out of the dirt to busy his hands.

“How about you? What would you be doing?” he turns his head over to him and awaits his response. His lips are a little red, probably from the obscene amount of kissing they’ve been doing. It just makes him want to kiss him again, harder this time.

“Hmmm…, probably just studying in my room like usual. I’ve been researching a lot for a career I’m interested in and I kinda holed myself in my room. When I get ambitious outbursts, I just trap myself in whatever it is until I’m proud of myself. I guess it’s a flaw of mine but that’s just how my brain works.”

The ferry drifts past the water, sounding with a loud horn. George giggles under his breath and continues, “wanna know what’s weird? So many times in my life I’ve had moments that I’ve shared with people that are _mesmerizing_ , just downright beautiful, right? Whether it be watching the stars or listening to music. But, something’s always off. It’s like the person I’m with is never right. I don’t think you can really enjoy something if the right person isn’t with you. But right now? I’m glad that person is you,” he swallows, entranced by the passing puffs of city smoke in the air, “you probably wouldn’t understand how something like this would be so important to me right now, but it is.”

“I like this too,” Dream states. “I hate how I could’ve missed you. I hate how I pass by so many people each day without knowing anything about their life and I’m stuck here wondering whether we could’ve hit it off. And sometimes I don’t even notice them—they’re just ghosts in the background. I could’ve been in the same place as you a million times and both of us never knew. Isn’t that fucked to think about?”

“I’d like to think that I wouldn’t pass you by. Maybe we caught each other at the right time,” George leans over to caress his face, finger sliding down the curve of his nose. Dream presses forward and catches his lips, a sloppy thing because of the angle, but it’s perfect anyways. He cards his fingers through his hair in attempts to deepen their kiss, and George complies, licking at his bottom lip. They continue on like that, wet hot breath and the lewd swiping of tongues. Sober kisses are so much sweeter, so much more _alive._

George disconnects their lips, and Dream takes a well-needed breath that sounds stupidly erotic, shakiness present in his throat. George starts a trail of sugared kisses down the column of his neck and looks back up at him in this salacious way that makes Dream’s heart act up. 

“So-,” he moans and pecks George on the lips, “what do you suppose that woman over there is thinking about? What’s her life like?” 

George groans, “probably thinking about how Dream should shut up and keep kissing me,” he sasses, his voice more rough and lust-filled. Dream laughs and turns over so that he’s facing George at a better angle, looks into his eyes coyly. 

_You’re so familiar but I don’t know why. Maybe you’ve visited me in my dreams and I just can’t remember. I want to be your blue. You’re my green—can you feel it in the way I kiss you?_

He doesn’t want to believe that the day will end. _Seeing is believing,_ isn’t that what they say?

He kisses George again. This time, making sure to close his eyes, choosing not to believe.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> someone please i’m begging you make one of those funky little edits to this fic, it’ll be so cool.


	5. The Perfect Kiss

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The goodbye.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> SOOO i'd like to thank every1 for all the kudos and bookmarks! it doubled since last time which is really REALLY cool! :D
> 
> true to my word, i made a [spotify](https://open.spotify.com/playlist/0dSoM6AGVKF1Iz2wMFRfG0?si=Ismalx44QXi0_VbIWV1dJA) playlist!
> 
> I'll be adding to it after I publish each chapter starting today. :)
> 
> I love reading your comments everyone!! All of your kudos and comments brighten my day and make me more excited to write more of this fic.

☆.｡.:* .｡.:*☆

“What time is it, now?” 

“Eleven o’ nine.”

“Fuck,” chimes Dream, angrily dragging at the corners of his face. “How about now?”

“Time to stop asking me what time it is so I don’t think about it,” George yawns then cracks his back before continuing to fiddle with the curls at the top of Dream’s head. 

“Damn. Sorry, sassy-pants.”

The lake water ripples in the background against the steel fences surrounding the edges of the city, serene and calming. It clashes horribly with his nerves, like polka dots on plaid. Dream snuggles into his lap, choosing to make himself as small as possible rather than towering over him like his height would allow him to. It makes his heart pang painfully against his chest, a memory he’d like to seclude in its own little bubble. “Anyone tell you, you’re actually pretty cute like this?” The question forces his way out of George’s mouth before he can stop it.

Dream stills underneath his fingers and he turns over to look up at him, tongue-tied and blushing. “W-What’d you say?” he coughs out.

The flushed reaction feeds his ego and eggs him on enough to respond. “You’re pretty cute...uh, I guess. Shit, stop looking at me with that face, stupid.” Somehow he forgets that he’s not that good at smooth-talking without alcohol guiding his tongue. In an effort to save his pride, he swipes away at Dream’s face, choosing to look away. 

“You mean the face that you’ve spent hours kissing, _stupid_?” He does somewhat of a curl-up to slap a brief kiss on George’s cheek. Then he continues reclining in his lap, a smug expression decorating his face. “Haha, you’re blushing!”

“So we’re pretending you totally didn’t croak like a frog right now because I called you cute?”

“Listen—it was...unexpected. Okay whatever, shut the fuck up, George.” George responds with a snort. “C’mere,” he beckons and pulls down at the neck of his shirt so they’re liplocking once again. George kisses him back feverishly, tries to communicate his feelings with tongue and teeth. Kissing him like this stings, and as he coaxes his way into Dream’s mouth, tasting those rays of sunshine again—brilliant but devouring. 

It feels conclusive and desperate, like they’re both trying to find a way to keep each other close despite the red curtain closing in. If kisses could talk, this one would demand to be remembered. It’s a plea, almost; _We’re like sun showers, you and I. This, here? I think it’s the closest I’ll get to heaven._

“You’re awfully good at that, Dream,” he murmurs breathlessly, suddenly aware that the position gives him full access to stare at his face again, legs crossed. 

“At what?” Dream softly tucks a strand of hair under his ear, and the action is so intimate that he forgets what they’ve agreed on. But he’s insufferably selfish so he basks in it despite the emergency sirens sounding off in his head.

“Kissing.” 

“Of course I am. I told you, I’m like...your Prince Charming,” he chortles, arms now loosely crossing on his chest. George lightly pushes at his arm, mocking disgust.

“Ugh, stop ruining the moment. I take it back, I’m gonna throw up, watch.” He fakes a vomiting sound as he uses his pointer finger to poke at his tongue. 

“And here I thought I forgave you for your homophobic ways…,” Dream sighs and adds on a pair of _tuts,_ shaking his head in disproval. 

“Wait, no—I didn’t mean it, _stop_ ,” George whines. Dream faces away from him, eyes closed. “Dreeeeam, stooop,” he adds on, strung out and a little high pitched. He attempts to give him a peck but is only met with pursed lips. “Dream-!”

“No,” he replies, still tightly bounding his lips together.

“Okay, okay. I’m full homo for you, whatever. Now let me kiss you, you heathen.” He bends down for a kiss again, this time greeted with Dream’s open mouth against his. He sucks on his tongue and gets lost in it, desire coiling deep down in his stomach. It’s all white noise until he hears a vulgar wet sound when their mouths part, Dream biting down on his bottom lip and licking it over with his tongue. “ _Ungh—_ Dream. _Dream._ ”

Dream slowly arises from his position in George’s lap, one hand on his hip and another on his back for support, until he topples over him. He moves down to his jaw, sucking at pale skin and leaving messy kisses until he gets down to his neck. George exhales, shaky breath turning into a small moan. “Dream- _mmph,_ ” and then his knee softly presses in between his thighs and he’s fluttering his eyes closed in bliss, letting out a guttural groan.

“Fuck, I didn’t mean to-,” Dream says, voice fucked out and raw, quickly jumping back to sit upright. “My fucking knee went in the wrong place and I-,”

“It’s okay, I just-,” he takes a short breath and throws his head back into the grass, “ _fuck_. I’m so turned on right now and we’re in a fucking public park. Fuck.” 

Dream starts loudly laughing, the sound especially amplified when he’s on the ground like this. “Dude, me too. I have the worst fucking boner—please say something disgusting. I have to get up and walk around like this, holy fuck.”

George straightens his legs on the ground, hoping to relieve the pain shooting through his thighs. “It’s very much like you to use the word _dude_ after we’ve had our tongues lodged in each other’s mouths literally seconds ago.”

“Oh, come on. What would you rather me call you?” Dream looks over to him, rolling his eyes, pupils still dark and dilated.

“Dunno, anything but _dude_ , that’s for sure.”

“You literally still have a fucking stiffy right now, you _cannot_ be knit-picking, pillow princess.” 

“Pillow princess?! I am _not_ a pillow princess!” he yelps, springing up. 

“Okay, fine… here’s a new one,” he pauses for dramatic effect and promptly says, “brat.”

“NO!” he yells louder than the last time, interrupting Dream’s statement with both of his hands to his mouth. “On second thought, I like _dude._ Keep calling me that, maybe it’s kind of endearing if I ignore it enough.” He puts his hands back down and Dream inhales a bit through his nose, choking on air. “What the hell?”

“I’m,” a croak, “I’m fine. It’s just uh-,” his eyes travel down George’s face, and the blush of his cheeks reaches his ears.

“What?”

“Nothing. It’s just you,” he grumbles.

“What about me?”

“You look...good. Very, um, what’s the word for it? Marked up?” George shakes his head in confusion, not understanding Dream’s words. “Stop acting like you don’t know, ugh.”

“No, really. What is it?”

“You’re so clueless, sometimes. Let me spell it out for you, then,” he groans. “You look sexed-out and you’ve got bruises all over your lips. Doesn’t really help the situation at hand, y’know.” 

“Oh, right.” He touches his lips and feels a blooming sensation of pain, not really unpleasant but more comforting. There’s something about the affirmation of Dream’s presence on his body that makes him feel loopy. “Whoops.”

“Fuck you,” he giggles. “You’re so fucking loud too. How am I supposed to go about my daily life now without hearing the way you say my name in the back of my head?”

“Mmm, maybe that’s the point,” George replies. “I don’t want you to forget.”

“Don’t say shit like that,” he cries out, hiding his head in his knees.

George is about to retort something snarky but a loud ringing noise interrupts them. It’s an annoying drone that only gets more irritating as it repeats. “Oh shit,” Dream says hurriedly, “that’s my alarm to start heading back.” He fishes out his phone and starts randomly pressing on the screen. 

“You’re lying,” George gripes, “it feels like it’s only been seconds, are you actually serious?”

Dream changes the position of his phone so that it’s facing him—twelve o’ clock in bold white font. “Time to go,” Dream retorts, now standing up from the patch of grass they’ve been lying on for hours. “Come on.” 

_Making out is time consuming._ He stores that thought for future reference. “Why’s it that you’re always the one telling me to get going? I should be the one who says it for once.” He gets up with a groan and dusts his hands. 

“It takes a lot of self-restraint, trust me.” Dream turns around, hoping that he’ll follow. 

Paused, George looks at the creases of his back, the way his muscles buckle when he stretches, and it makes him ache. 

He’s always asked himself what it feels like to be on the opposite end of a closing sequence. When the red curtains brush together, are there theatrics? Do you feel the warmth of the spotlight on your skin, prismatic floaters under your eyelids like the popping of fireworks? Is it the all-at-once explosive kind of feeling or does it slowly crackle like a dying flame? 

If this is anything to go by, he just feels empty. No sizzling pop, or a burst of fire—just unspeakable emptiness and a fade to black.

☆.｡.:* .｡.:*☆

“So,” George starts, staring into the darkness of the train tracks. Looking at anything but Dream. He’s just as quiet, spaced out as he sports a solemn expression like he’s just realized something awful.

“So.” He says it conclusively, something eating away at him. They’re both at a loss for words, anxiety as clear as day swallowing them whole. His thoughts are just ants at this point, insignificant and petulant little things he’s flicking away when they linger about. _I want you to stay. Why’s it so hard to tell you that I want you to stay?_

“This is it, huh?” he voices, sounding a little worn at the edges. 

“No, not until,” Dream looks up at the electric-powered signs, “ten minutes from now. What can we say to each other in ten minutes?” He’s wearing the green sweater again now sun-dried from their making out in the grass. It looks pristine, like the rain had never doused it in the first place. A dull throb pangs in George’s chest.

“I had so much to talk about before, it’s annoying. Now that you’re almost gone, it’s like I’m running out of things to say.” The adjacent train passes, traveling to uptown New York, a cacophony of noises following suit while leaving in a trail of smoke. 

His heart feels like it’s falling apart, trampled by the New York City train tracks and bleeding through the crevices in the wood. He stiffens his breath and shifts closer to Dream, nestling his head into his shoulder. He feels Dream relax into the touch, and he suddenly wants to be the thermal energy transferring between their bodies. George closes his eyes and breathes him in, reveling in their last moments like the secret sap he is. He hates the yearning, the heady chase of cat and mouse and how it entices him. 

That’s the thing about words; they’re too difficult to spit out when they matter the most. Touches are like silent words, etching into memories with invisible ink. There’s language hidden in the way he burrows into Dream, clinging onto time like the way a child handles a kite. _Stupid Florida man, I don’t know how you’ve done it but you have. Fuck you. Reeling me in with your stupid music and your stupid smile. I’ve never met anyone quite like you._

He’d kiss him if he could, but it’d be too telling; too intimate. Goodbye kisses are for lovers, people who aren’t Dream and George. And it’s not like he’s up for commitment, knowing that Dream’s just a temporary body to occupy time with; someone to complete and exhaust that overplayed but ageless dance of naive, young love.

He stands upright, again.

“Oh, uh. I almost forgot,” Dream interrupts as he fumbles for something in his sweater pocket. “I’m surprised it’s still here with how often I tossed this shit around. Kinda squished but it’s still viable, I’d say.”

He hands him a pressed lilac, tiny petals and leaves protruding in bushels from its stem. He’s never been a flower person, mostly writing off the sentiment of flowers as cheesy. But this is tangible evidence of Dream, and—it’s different. Everything is different with Dream.

“It’s from the garden, um... I’m usually one for the preservation of plant-life or whatever, but, I figured plucking one wouldn’t be so bad.” He smiles at him, “it’ll be like a momento.”

George sighs, a flashing orange projection of the _two minutes away_ sign grabbing his attention. “Take care of yourself, yeah?”

“Of course, I will. Have fun in New York. And remember to get your stuff from that coffee shop, tomorrow. You remember the address, right?” The tracks start shaking erratically, giving way for the train’s arrival. 

And then there it goes, rushing in with that mantra of loud clacking. 

“ _Yes_ ,” he laughs but it doesn’t quite reach his eyes, “I hate this.” 

“Me too…,” the train settles with a screeching of brakes. Dream starts counting on his fingers, calculating something quickly. “The nineteenth of… February? I’ll see you on the nineteenth of February. Six months,” he says. The doors snap open and a few people start walking in.

“Six months, I got it.” Dream looks at the train and then at George and grins, blinding as always. It hurts to look at.

“See you,” he calls out, adoration heavy in his voice with a peppering of sadness. He’s walking slowly, hesitance in his steps. 

“Bye, Dream.” 

“Oh, and George?” 

“Yeah?”

He jumps onto the platform of the train, and looks like he’s debating something, his eyes glancing upwards in thought. “Nevermind! Bye!” he calls out.

“Um, bye!” Dream laughs, now behind the windows of the closed doors, framed like a painting. George feels a little frustrated, desperate to know what Dream was going to say but he buries it deep down. _It was probably something stupid anyways_ , he reasons. 

He watches the momentary seconds of Dream grabbing a handlebar. His face becomes absent-minded, melding with the shared manner of the metro crowds. Another stranger. Then he’s a blur; dancing lights of dust and time, blue, green, blue, green—intermingling then joining together in a unified grey light, this time. 

He’s gone. 

George is alone again. 

☆.｡.:* .｡.:*☆

“It’s not hard to call back, you literal asshole,” chimes Sapnap’s voice from George’s phone. He decided to call him back while waiting for the train to his Grandparents’ house, knowing that he was probably panicking over him not responding. He didn’t even dare to look at how many missed calls he had.

“I got carried away! You know I always answer! God-forbid I don’t text back or call _once_.”

“Exactly, that’s the problem! You always answer me back,” he sucks in a frustrated breath. “Can I not be fucking worried if my best friend goes radio silent? Plus, it’s not only about _me_. Your mom called me.”

George groans, irritation and fear bubbling in his stomach “Oh _god_ , why didn’t you tell me this in the first place?”

“Just be prepared to get reamed, bro. She’s pissed. Also, you would’ve hung up on me if I opened up the conversation like that. And there’s nothing more fucking annoying than you hanging up on me.”

He goes quiet on the line; _he wouldn’t tell her, right?_

“Sap, you didn’t tell her anything, did you?”

“No, man, I wouldn’t pull something like that on you. I abide by the bro code, Gogy. I’m not gonna spill your secrets out to Mother George,” he pauses. “ _However_ , that doesn’t mean I wasn’t scared shitless when she started fucking yelling at me. Just saying, you owe me one.”

He thanks the heavens, unaware of why he’d ever doubt Sapnap in the first place. He’s a once-in-a-lifetime type of friend, the type of friend that makes you ask yourself, _how’d I get so lucky to have you in my life?_

“Ugh, thank god. She would’ve never stopped asking me if I was finally gonna bring someone over, you know how annoying she gets.”

“Hold on, hold on. Speaking of your love life-,”

“Oh god, please no,”

“What?! I need to know! What happened? You can’t expect to lay a fat brick on me and not tell me what the fuck happened!”

“Uh,” George swallows, “it was just a hangout thing, you know I’m not like _that_.” Lies. “I talked to him for a while and then we split ways. I got carried away afterwards while looking around the city.” More lies. “Like, did you know that they removed the Toys-R-Us ferris wheel? Isn’t that fucked up?”

“George-,” he says, serious. It’s evident in his tone, the way he just _knows_. There’s no harm in telling Sapnap, sure, but he just can’t. Lies are so much safer.

“Also, I ate Halal food for the first time from a food truck. Definitely gonna regret it later but it tasted really good!”

“Ugh, okay. Whatever, George. Just, like, call your mom so she doesn’t go ballistic on you _and me._ I’m going to sleep. I’ve wasted too much time worried about your ass.” It sounds dejected and a little sad.

“Okay...um,” he feels dumb avoiding his questions, knowing that he can read George like a book. “Thank you Nick, really. For being here for me. I know I’m annoying sometimes but—thanks.”

“I’ll always be here for you, you know that. Okay, love you dude. Bye.”

“Bye.”

It only becomes apparent after he hangs up the phone and dials in his mother’s number that he doesn’t think he’ll ever tell him the truth. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> SOSOSOOO, i'm really excited for the next chapter??? Things r cooking up!! New people will also be introduced.


	6. Every Little Counts

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The flashback

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> uhhhh this is so fucking long lmao

**December 15, 2015**

**Orlando, Florida**

☆.｡.:* .｡.:*☆

“ _I could die right now, Clem. I'm just... happy. I've never felt that before. I'm just exactly where I want to be_ ,” Joel says from the television. They’re watching Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind, mostly for background noise at this point. 

Crashing at Fundy’s place had been the best decision out of Clay’s other poorer ones given the cold and his excessive drinking, body and head still feeling the after-effects of an all-nighter even now. It’s been a prominent part of his life at this point—binge drinking and hangovers; rewind and repeat, the record spinning round. Thank god the blinds are shut, daylight filtering through enough to offer a clear picture of the place without worsening his wicked hangover headache. 

It’s homey in the sense that it’s filled to the brim with random stacks of fashion magazines and statement clothes, stray pieces of jewelry and a few board games dispersed throughout the relatively large space and giving it character. Dozens of flashy glam rock posters also litter the walls so that only a little bit of their moldy yellow color shows, a circular rug doing the same for the outdated wood floorboards. He even has time to appreciate the visible specs of dust that circulate by the window in the sun, mesmerizing in his zoned-outness. All in all, Clay would say it lives up to Fundy’s description—a way better joint than his closet of an apartment at the very least. Guy should consider himself lucky that he managed to snag such an awesome place. 

“Clementine is neat,” Clay says and slumps back into the stray bean bag off the side of Fundy’s bed, beads crunching under the careless addition of his weight. 

“Yeah, this movie’s pretty fucking neat. Probably even better if you’re hungover,” Fundy replies, watching the scene play out on the screen; Clementine and Joel are laying on their backs in the cold, looking up at the sky. 

“I’ve never watched it before. All the film kids talked about it so much that I thought it was gonna be some pretentious garbage, y’know?” Fundy nods in agreement. “But I get it. I’ve always been scared of being in a relationship and really liking who I’m with.” He doesn’t add the afterthoughts, the way that he’s terrified of them scratching through his flesh like chipped paint, only to reveal his ugly flaws on the inside. Because at the end of a relationship, that’s all you really see—flaws; sticking out like jagged pieces of glass. It’s always a question of tolerability, whether or not the good outweighs the bad. Isn’t that all love is, really? A moronic game of give and take until both parties are satisfied?

They watch the movie until it’s end, credits rolling while playing that sad song from Beck. Clay’s never known shit about love, more preoccupied with the color of his liquor when the light refracts off his glass. He’s sure he’s got some insight, though; people compare drunkenness to love all the time. So all in all, the movie’s good; true to being in love, he guesses.

Fundy turns off the television with the click of his remote and looks over to Clay. “Actually, do you know what I want to do?”

He’s got this annoying smile on, one that spells trouble. You know how people use the term, _red-headed stepchild?_ That pretty much encapsulates Fundy; a real wild child in the way that he jumps from place to place without any qualms, preferring to crash on a stranger’s bed than entertain the idea of regularity. That, and he hated sleeping in the same house as his parents. From what he’s gathered, Fundy was adopted when he was eight by, _in his words_ , two crazed republicans who just wanted the clout for doing a good deed for some random kid. And the negligence did wonders for breeding his spontaneity. What’s a kid to do when they feel unwanted?

Once he turned eighteen, he slammed the door on their faces and haggled with the landlord to rent out this flat for half the price. Clay would be confused on how anyone could possibly bargain down the amount by _that_ much, but if anyone could do it, it’s Fundy. He’s just got _connections._

Fundy’s a weird guy in general, opting out of even telling Clay his actual name. He figures it has to do with killing old memories, though. Clay asked him once and he’d replied saying, _I dunno’, I just like the change_. Instead of questioning it, Clay just nodded, seeing the allure of being someone else for a change. He should really try it out sometime. 

“You’re full of ideas all the time. Don’t tell me it’s another illegal one.” The last time he had one of his spur of the moment ideas, they were running away from a group of security guards, spray cans in hand. Fundy thought it’d be funny to spray-paint dicks on the walls of the department store that he got fired from. Safe to say they’re not welcomed there anymore.

“Maybe a _little_ bit illegal. But it’s fine as long as we don’t get caught.”

“ _All_ crimes are fine if you don't get caught, Funds.” He sinks further into the bean bag, rolling his eyes. 

“I’m thinking of crashing a party-,”

“No,” Clay affirms, throwing his feet onto the edge of Fundy’s mattress to stop himself from slipping down onto the floor. 

“Come on, Clay. It’s technically _not_ party-crashing if…it’s being held at the log cabin we should technically own by now,” he says it with flair, because he knows Clay’s relationship with nostalgia. “It _was_ going to be a surprise but you’re being such a pissbaby right now that I gotta ruin it just to convince you.” 

The log cabin—he’s a sucker for the log cabin.

“No chance it actually got rented out this year. During the holidays, really?” Fundy nods, knowing that Clay’s interest is piqued. “I thought it was abandoned, by now…,” he veers off, thinking about all of the times him and his group would hang out there on their off-days during summer. “Does that mean they cleaned out all of our shit?”

The prospect irks him, having left all of their memories boarded up in the cabin; sports equipment, random doodles, and knickknacks. Even so, maybe it was just meant to be— this summer would be the last year they’d spend there, anyways. And it wouldn’t be the same if they’d crash there this summer, either. His friends had gotten caught up in that _new beginnings_ bullshit, deciding last minute that they’d attend colleges in random countries across the globe.

 _I’m just tired of the same old, same old_ , Sam had said, clutching onto the baseball bat they’d bought together on their first day of high school. He can’t really blame them, though. A tour around the neighborhood more than brings that home—people practicing the craft all the time, just working the system. He can pass them again and again and they would still be cycling through the _same old, same old._ It’s not as if they don’t hate it though. He has a keen enough insight. Spent enough time observing to recognize the reality of their situations. 

Good for them that they’re breaking the chain of monotony, leaving promptly right after the first semester. Doesn’t mean he isn’t bummed about it.

“I don’t even know, that’s the thing. I was curious about what it looked like now that it’s been all dolled up. Which is why…,” he spreads out his hands, gesturing to the topic that started the discussion in the first place.

Curiosity is a stone cold killer. One last hurrah, right? 

“Ugh, fine. But if we get in trouble, you’re the one who’s gonna be answering questions. I’m just an innocent bystander who thought you were a family-friend, okay?”

Fundy jolts out of his bed and starts applauding loudly, prompting Clay to cover his face in embarrassment, regret settling heavy on his head. “Oh, you know that’s fine with me. I’m good at making things up on the spot! Let me call Wilbur. He’ll be thrilled that you said yes!”

☆.｡.:* .｡.:*☆

Fundy had told Clay to ride shotgun, pleading that he didn’t want him to get fined for underage driving without a license if worse came to worst. He doesn’t really follow his train of thought, especially because Fundy has a knack for breaking laws but he shrugs it off. 

“So you’re certain it’s a big shindig and no one will pick up on the fact that we don’t know them?” Clay beckons. “Actually, you know, I didn’t even realize that I hadn’t asked you about how you even found out about this party,” he slaps his head, “also, Wilbur is already fucking drunk! How are we going to function, Fundy?” 

“He’s rambling again, Wilbur. Tell him something, won’t you?” He keeps one hand on the steering wheel and uses the other to turn on the radio, currently playing some new hit pop song. The interior of Fundy’s car is _interesting_ to say the least, with mismatched accessories spanning the walls. And _god, the seat covers_ ; truly a monstrosity in pink and white leopard print.

“Ugh, Clay, stop nagging. It’ll be fun! Like, who doesn’t fancy free food and music?” Wilbur yells back languidly, arms slinging over the headrest of the car seat. Clay throws him an extremely annoyed expression and Wilbur sarcastically replies, “aw look, he’s warming up to the idea, already. I reckon that it’s the music that’s making him so much happier, Fundy. Maybe you should turn it up and he’ll give us a big smile.”

“You might be onto something! Here, I’ll turn it up just for you, man,” he turns the dial to the left until the music is blasting at its full-capacity, prompting Clay to smack his head down on the dashboard in anguish. Wilbur and Fundy start to sing along to the lyrics of the song just to spite him, chiming random words when they reach the parts that they don’t know. It’d be irritating if he wasn’t holding back a smile, the two of them making utter idiots out of themselves.

“Both of you actually suck,” he states, smile poking through easily. He watches as the highway turns to lush greenery, the open window providing a steady winter breeze. That’s the good thing about Florida, the winter is never really that cold, providing more of a comfort, if anything. 

“We love you too, buddy!” Fundy laughs and makes a sharp turn, the all-familiar pathway to the cabin coming into view. He parks the car in a random patch of grass to the side, paying no mind to the fact that he can’t park there. It’s not like anyone patrols the area, anyways. It’s one of the reasons why they could easily get away with trespassing on the property for all these years, after all.

He closes the car door with a smack, looking up at the strange sight of the now over-populated log cabin.

“Wow, guys. The cabin’s all lit up. They grow up fast, don’t they?” Wilbur questions wistfully, wiping a faux tear from his eye. He’s not wrong though, it’s barely recognizable with the intense colored lighting and decorations. He’s used to it looking dead and empty, rather than exploding with life—people crowding the area in large clusters. Fundy was definitely right, there’d be no way that anyone could tell them apart when there’s this many people flooding it’s interior.

“Just don’t fucking desert me again like you always do,” chimes Clay, already walking up the pathway carved in dirt. 

“Ay, ay, Captain.” 

☆.｡.:* .｡.:*☆

Clay hates himself for forgetting the age old rule: never trust in either Fundy or Wilbur when one of them is drunk. They’re possibly the worst duo ever, putting the chemical reaction of Mentos and Coca-Cola to shame. 

It’s quite incredible how they’d managed to disappear within the first few seconds of Clay’s entrance, double-checking by turning his head in all directions.

His entry elicits a divide in the huddle of people collected behind the doors, all of them too blasted to berate him for breaking them apart. The place is shrouded in festive swoops of green and red, a real prominent Christmas vibe going on. He has a clear view of the makeshift dance floor from the small balcony, gripping the railing as he combs through the crowd for Fundy and Wilbur; the explosive music ricocheting off the walls and sauntering about his eardrums whilst he carefully treads the descending wooden staircase. So many of the attendees are out of style in their garments, flaunting mid-eighties fashion in color-blocks, animal prints and baggy fabrics rather than the modern ripped denim and oversized shirts. Same with the music—remixes of disco and electronic new wave that have quickly faded from the popular repertoire of today‘s music. _Must be an eighties themed party, then?_

Near suffocating once he nears the center of the action, Clay admits defeat temporarily by retreating to the more lax area in his vicinity, dance hour apparently at its height. He spots a rectangular table housing refreshments in the form of large jar-like dispensers of alcohol and smiles. _At_ _long last._ There’s a moment of hesitation, thoughts pinballing back and forth over the repercussions; _I can’t find my friends, I have no idea who these people are and for all I know, there could be who knows what in these drinks. Damn, I really just want to get wasted, though. It’s only hard lemonade, right? It shouldn’t be too bad._ His concentration breaks when someone at his side coughs loudly, poking his back. His muscles tense up, automatically.

“Never seen you, before,” he says, voice breaking in a pubescent type of way. Clay turns around slowly, heart in his chest, and is met with a teenager who’s at least a foot shorter than him. He has a few blemishes on his face with these big eyes, dark brown hair sticking up in different directions. And goddamn him if he’s going to stand here and be bested by a child.

“Uh, well—I’m a friend of a friend. A plus one, you could say,” Clay replies, a nervous smile on his face. He faces the table once more, grabbing a red plastic cup, and filling his drink with the lemonade from one of the dispensers. 

“Hmmm, I guess that could be true. So, what’s your name?” the kid presses, hanging next to his side and bouncing on the balls of his feet. In a lapse of judgement, he takes a sip of the drink and it burns in the back of his throat, barely tasting like lemonade. He downs the rest, afterwards—just to seem cool in front of a stranger. Clay’s just like that; _presentations are everything._

“Clay,” he quips and fills up another, sloshing it around while the bubbles pop erratically. “And what’s your name, kid?” 

“You’re probably barely older than me! Also it’s Nick, but um—you can call me Sapnap. That’s what all of my friends call me, anyways.” He plays with the fabrics of his vest, trying to come up with conversation, it seems. Clay’s usually more of a talker but the taste of the alcohol is currently getting the better of him, his lips smacking together in aversion. “By the way, that lemonade’s pretty strong. My friend’s mom put in some really concentrated rum, so, maybe you shouldn’t drink too much.”

He laughs, averting his attention to the chaotic congregation of dancers, unbelieving that he’s being talked down by a child. “How old are you, anyways?” 

“Fifteen. But trust me, my friend just drank himself blind because some people dared him to chug _that_ rum straight out of the bottle. He’s so wasted right now and he didn’t even make a dent in it,” Sapnap leans his back on the table with his elbows resting on the ledge, looking over the party-scene before them. He makes for pretty good company without the presence of his two asshole friends, probably opting out of hanging with him to talk up some girls. 

“Pretty sure I’m better at holding my liquor, then. ‘Sides, isn’t that what parties are for?” He downs another cup just to prove a point and feels light-headed instantly, colored lights blurring together. He pauses, squeezing his eyes together to wash away the dizziness. Yeah, he’s definitely feeling it now. “Why aren’t you helping your friend if he’s so wasted?” His voice is more husky, throat feeling the aftermath of the alcohol. 

“He’s got enough girls crowding him, already. I’m sure they’re helping him out. Besides, it was starting to get annoying watching all of them doting on him.” He pouts, looking over to Clay. “You seemed cool enough to talk to, though. I like your leather jacket.”

Clay looks down, suddenly remembering that he’s in his “ _badass”_ getup, with black denim jeans and his father’s worn leather jacket, sporting pins of bands that he doesn’t even know the name of. He figured it’d look cool enough if some girl decided to talk to him tonight.

“Didn’t even get the memo that we were dressing up as a bunch of Breakfast Club rejects. I guess I just fit the bill without even trying,” he laughs. “Hey, same here, though. I guess you could say I got tired of my friends, as well.” 

“It’s not that I’m tired of him. It’s just that…,” he stops. “Nevermind, you probably don’t wanna hear ‘bout this shit.” 

A glitter bomb explodes somewhere in the crowd, sparkling like stardust in the air. 

“You know, I’ve been told that I’m a good listener. Plus, it’s not like I’m doing much just standing here.” He holds in his hiccup with a fist to his mouth. 

“Well, I guess…,” Sapnap tapers off, double-checking that he’s fine with him venting, and Clay responds with a nod. “Fuck, he’s, _like_ , always been so popular without even trying. Then, he complains to me about girls liking him! He’s my best friend but, sometimes I feel like I’m just looked at as an extension of him. Just sucks that I can’t make any friends that aren’t actually interested in him and not me.”

“Hey, if he’s your friend, I’m sure that you’ll be able to get your point across that it makes you feel bad. Popularity doesn’t dictate shit, by the way.”

“Yeah, and it’s even more annoying because I know that! But the feeling never goes away... It’s always on the back of my mind.” 

“I’ll be your friend, then. You’re pretty cool. Look. Hold on,” he haphazardly grabs a napkin from the table and searches for the pen that he’d stored in his pocket from a few days ago. He uncaps it with his teeth and scribbles his number on the surface, pressure making small rips in his handwriting. 

“Really?” Sapnap grabs the napkin, dumbfounded and wearing an expression that makes his heart ache— _this means so much,_ his eyes say. 

“Of course, man.” It’s a heart-warming moment; there’s something about Sapnap that reminds him of himself, like he’s his long-lost younger brother. 

But then his face starts wildly pounding, producing a zapping feeling in the back of his head. Instinctively, he pushes his hand down on his forehead, trying to massage the pain away. Probably the alcohol that’s making him this sappy. Yeah, after this, he really needs to get off the drinking.

“Hey, are you okay? I told you not to-,” his voice cuts off and coincidentally the music bleeds into another song. “Ugh, he’s coming over here…” 

Clay follows Sapnap’s directional gaze, his head tilting to the side, pointing into the heart of the crowd. The drums crash, guitars twanging while the bass persists. Clay is still trying to regain his balance, the onslaught of people looking more like a mess of fluorescent paint by the second. Then his eyes finally hone in on the figure of interest in the crowd. Dramatically—like shucking away the curtains in a grand unveiling—the topsy-turvy orientation of people scatters enough to reveal a flushed man; him being the most distinct, standing out above the masses with a neon paisley-printed button-down.

“ _Wow,_ ” Sapnap’s voice gets drowned out by the irregular thump of his heart crashing against his chest. Brown-haired and well-dressed, a case of déjà vu incarnate. “He looks worse than before.” 

What he says after falls on deaf ears, rather the singer of this tune he’s never heard before dominates every one of his senses, instilling in him a weightlessness; an inability to grasp time and space; a loss of the anchor that distinguishes dream from reality. _Is my timing that flawed,_ the enchantment drifts, _our respect run so dry?_ The song encircles him and casts a drunken spell. _Yet there's still this appeal that we've kept through our lives._

Time slows and he revels in it. 

They’re locked into one another, an electricity between them as brown is bleached green under the intense lights, the odd halo of light outlining the man’s form akin to the sun’s corona during an eclipse. Moles, lashes, lips—he can’t pick every detail of him, but his face tells all: _You’re familiar_ ; a weird recognition that others chalk up to past lives and all that reincarnation nonsense. Whatever it is, no one else seems to exist, the people flailing about around him pale in comparison. With them invading the periphery of his vision, fear prickles at the ends of his fingertips; lessened though still apparent. Could his heart be fluttering so insanely that even they could hear? Enough that he could? _Probably_ , the damned thing unapologetic; talking true blue. 

In a pendular motion, the scene transforms as it’s dyed entirely blue, then green—his appearance unchanging, body lax, but expression complex; haunting. It almost tugs at him to come forth, but he’s also compelled to run far away; to run anywhere else, but he won’t abandon ship twice in a day. He’s not the type.

 _Love, love will tear us apart again,_ the effects of its magic linger. A second wave of white washes over the inert crowd. He blinks. 

The blue appears again, though it’s not lighting dowsing all the people. No, the blue he sees this time is the thin trail of blood that streams down the guy’s nose, staining his overexposed skin. 

“Heya,” Sapnap fades in. “Clay, dude?” He snaps out of the trance, time resuming; silently watches as the man rushes off, clutching his nose and heading towards the back room of the cabin. 

“I’ll be back.” He swiftly gives chase, Sapnap’s question caught in his throat from his spontaneity. “Pardon me,” he flings apologies while squeezing past people. “Excuse me, please.” Most are too zoned out to care, the task made more difficult from their listlessness. _You don’t know him,_ he rationalizes over and over until he’s standing in front of the backroom to the cabin. _Why the hell are you chasing after someone that you don’t know?_ Regardless of reason, his hands push the door, still tipsy and not thinking out any of his actions. The quick movement makes his head spin.

“Shit!” A mix of odd patterns and the back of the guy’s head greet him. “Dude, you scared me. Why weren’t you around?” a note of aggression cracks the last syllable, his voice slurred. The man rests his fist—clasping bloodied tissues—on the edge of the sink, now staring back at him from the reflection in the large window. “Oh,” he visibly deflates, “you’re not Sap. Fuggin’ asshole leaving me with those girls when I’m fuggin’ drunk a-as shit.” His accent would be easily distinguishable if not for his inebriation, his mind blanking and defining it as a _Royal Family-type_ accent.

“Uh-,” it’s hard to think, let alone move his jaw to speak out a string of words that make sense. If he had less control, it’d be a jumble of _blue boy, pretty, overhead lighting, my fucking head._ Instead, he settles for a simple, “are you...okay?”

“D’nno…, am I?” he questions back and laughs at his own terrible comeback, giggles hiking up in loud pitches. After dumping the heap of tissues, he rubs his eyes while looking at the window, glitter flaking off of his eyelashes from the poppers that people were setting off on the dancefloor, a smudge of black liner staining his fingers. “D’you think I look, okay?” He jumps on the windowsill while attempting to look Clay in the eyes, scratching his chest under the satin top he’s wearing. His collarbones are shining with sweat, under-eyes sporting a blur of shadow from the constant rubbing. It makes his breath catch, because _holy fuck,_ he’s never been so attracted to a man before (or really any man, for that matter).

 _Shit_.

“Yeah, I-,” he stutters, “I think you look fine.” It’s an understatement, especially when he ruffles his hair like that, pieces of glitter shimmering in the light, looking like stardust. He whole-heartedly laughs, and Clay feels a tender pang—too weighty, too fierce, when he’s barely here; like fitting a large object in a narrow space that doesn’t belong. 

“You’re not too shabby, either.” He looks deep into him, eyes staring into his, a permeating hunger there. “I've heard of dreamgirls before, y’know. But a dreamboy? Never seen one. I’d reckon you’d be one of ‘em,” he licks his lips, “a real dreamboy.” 

A crackle. A pop. A roll of thunder.

 _Dreamboy;_ it’s in the way he says it maybe, like it rolls off his tongue, like it’s meant for him. 

“You’d say so?”

“I know so,” he urges. “Lying’s for sober people. M’friend said he’d save me from those annoying girls. Did he? No. He jus’ left.” He launches himself off the windowsill, using his hands gripping on the wood as momentum. He looks around, taking in the stacks of storage boxes and random equipment scattered about. Clay follows suit, dazed until he lands his eyes on the all too familiar items scattered about.

“ _Holy shit,_ ” Clay voices, “I thought I lost all this stuff when someone rented this place.” He grabs a hockey puck that’s leaning on the walls and swings it—just for good measure. 

“You play hockey, dreamboy?” He tosses him a half-lidded smirk and starts sauntering around, looking through the cabinets for any other interesting memorabilia. “An’ what do you mean that this is yours?”

He’s sure he’s teasing him with the nickname but finds it addicting, nonetheless. Clay chokes on a laugh, fondness for the man opposite him blossoming in his stomach. It’s a clumsy laugh that pairs well with the stumbling thoughts shooting through his mind— _I’ll forget his face once I wake up tomorrow, won’t I? I’ll forget all of this._ “Mm, yeah. Used to hang around here with my friends before it got rented for this party. Also, hockey isn’t my strong-suit but, yeah...I guess I can play pretty alright.”

“Y’seem like the type to play all the sports. All-American and shit.” He lets out a loud yawn. “Ey, dreamboy. Can you do me a favor, actually?” He sits down on the floor, head thrown back onto the wooden walls. “Sit here with me?”

Clay acts on instinct, sliding onto the floor to accompany him. “What? You tired?” The eighties dance-pop bleeds through the crevices in the wood, lulling him into drunken tranquility with the pretty boy he’s never met at his side. It’s a feel-good moment; the way that one of the windows is slightly ajar and wind brushes his hair, the way their legs press against each other, the way they just are. 

His body heat invades his senses, smelling of rum and smoke with a hint of vanilla. Even though they’re sitting side-to-side, Clay’s still taller—a swelling of _something_ burgeoning inside him. He replies with a breathy groan, tucking his head into the space where Clay’s neck and shoulders meet. “I feel like this isn’t real. I feel transparent, you know? I saw you on the dancefloor across the room during that song. You were all I saw, actually.” He speaks in hushed tones, pale blue mist in his voice. “I think that’s prolly what fate feels like—like a bloody nose in a crowd of people. The faucet jus’ turns on an’you can’t stop it from overflowing. And all these people, they just look at you...like they _know._ ”

“Know what?” 

He’s quiet, nudging into him further. “That I’m lying to myself,” he whispers painfully. 

It’s a secret truth that he can’t make sense of because he doesn’t know him. So he chooses not to respond, just lets his head fall limp and rest upon his. 

“You’re warm, like the sun,” the boy says in his ear.

“An’ you’re cold,” he whispers back.

“Like the rain…I hate the rain.”

“I don’t think it’s that bad.”

They’re trapped in each other—this strange liminal space housing them while they’re stuck in the in-between; that place between sleep and awake. Clay’s already regretting tomorrow’s hangover riddled with blacked out memories, the ghost of the boy’s silhouette framing the empty recollection of his touch. He closes his eyes, unable to seem to stop himself.

The music drones on, as do the pounding of footsteps. The last thing he hears is the voice of the kid he met before accompanied by other murmurs. He can’t distinguish much as he dives into the pitch black blinds behind his eyes.

Fade in. 

_“Fucking…”_

Fade out. 

_“Gotta carry...home...”_

Fade in.

_“Hates me! He’s going to….”_

Fade out.

☆.｡.:* .｡.:*☆

Clay wakes up in his bed, head pressed against a warm pillow, the same clothes as yesterday clinging to his skin. He sits upright in an instant, hitting his face and trying to make sense of the timeline of yesterday’s events; Fundy’s car, a red cup of hard lemonade, a blurry image of something...someone…? 

His head aches. 

The bright screen of his phone almost blinds him and he closes his eyes in anguish. Once his eyes adjust to the light, the missed messages come into view on his lockscreen.

Today, 1:30 P.M.

**Fundy:** Hey uh, are you awake yet. 

**Fundy:** Actually, I doubt you are. But, I’ll write this just in case.

 **Fundy:** I’m sorry that I left you yesterday. I think the alcohol addiction is worse than I thought it was. I found you passed out in the back of the cabin without anyone around. The door was locked so I actually had to break in from the window. 

**Fundy:** I’m so sorry, Clay. I think we should all stop the drinking. I don’t think it’s healthy for any of us. Call me when you read this text. I love you, man.

He scrolls down.

Today, 9:54 A.M.

**Maybe: Sapnap**

**Sapnap:** Hi Clay, it’s Sapnap from yesterday’s party!! I guess you knocked out from all the lemonade before I could say goodbye lol.

 **Sapnap:** I found you in the back passed out so I locked the door and told my friend’s parents to kick everyone out. :(

 **Sapnap:** But I’m rlly rlly worried. When I went back to find you, you weren’t there. Did you wake up? Did you get back okay? I just hope you’re fine...I noticed the window was open so I guess you just hopped out? Let me know :((

Clay pauses and groans, firing off a message.

  
  


**Clay:** Hey dude, i’m alright. don’t worry!!! Thanks for helping me out tho. i owe you one.

 **Clay:** By any chance, was there someone next to me?? I feel like...I vaguely remember meeting someone??

 **Sapnap:** CLAY!! you’re okay!!! Also, no? You were alone from what I remember! :(

 **Clay:** ahhh, okay! thanks again man.

  
  


He frowns and shuts off his phone, burying deeper into the blankets surrounding him.

Weird. Plain weird.

☆.｡.:* .｡.:*☆

**February 19, 2019**

**Manhattan, New York**

_George._ He lives inside him at this point, his name like the intake of air in his lungs. He’s been a recurring presence in his dreams at this point, going as far as to persist in his mind in the daytime as well. He misses his face, the lingering oasis of his kisses, that moonshine in his eyes. 

He’s on the train, fidgeting and nervous. He’s rehearsed it a million times before, what he’d say, what George would say. But things like this aren’t fit for dress rehearsals and pre-written scripts. With the way that his leg is bouncing and his heart is racing, it feels like he’s awaiting his descent into a tank of sharks. He gets off at the station they’d agreed on and sits on one of the chairs, trying to focus on anything but George.

He sits back, and examines the people passing by. It gets boring after a half of an hour passes, no one standing out to him. He plays Eight Ball on his phone with Fundy for the next two hours, going back and forth until he messages him that he has chores to do around his apartment. Sam texts him afterwards, asking him how it went. Except nothing has “went,” so he ignores the message. He gets pinged on discord by Sapnap, which is strange because they haven’t talked in months. 

Today, 4:00 P.M.

**Sapnap:** hey clay, remember when you were talking to me about starting a channel on youtube all those months ago? i decided i wanted to give it a go. idk i thought i’d let you know bc you’re into all that stuff.

 **Sapnap:** how are you by the way?

  
  


He ignores the second text, pushing any feelings into the back of his mind.

  
  


**Clay:** i haven’t heard from you in a minute dude. and i say go for it, you’re def gnna succeed if you ever decide to make one. i think i kind of got the hang of it so i wanna start next month.

**Sapnap:** really?? we should record together sometime

**Clay:** that’d be cool. i miss talking to you 

**Sapnap:** me too. college sucks.

 **Sapnap:** btw, if you ever need to talk to someone, i’m always here. just wanted to put that out there. i care about you a lot dude :) <3

His breath catches in surprise and he immediately pockets his phone, feeling like it’s noticeable that he’s hurting. The fact that Sapnap also texted him so suddenly isn’t improving his mood, remembering that he ghosted him after the summer. He puts his head into his hands and stares at the tracks, a rat jumping across the slabs of wood entertains him for the next hour.

Time passes and George doesn’t show. It leaves a sour taste in his mouth.

He books a hotel and waits around the station the day after and he doesn’t show.

He waits a week, figuring that he might’ve forgotten the date. There’s missed messages piling up on his phone at this point. But every time he thinks he sees a figure that looks like George, it’s not him. So he continues to ignore all of the messages on his phone.

After a week, he gives up and begins his ride back to Florida. 

_George didn’t show_ , the thought swims around in his mind, drowning him in memories of the New York rain. He messages Sapnap.

Today, 8:30 P.M.

**Clay:** This week has been really shitty. I’m sorry for not responding.

 **Clay:** Can we start recording in a week, actually?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay okay, wow. A lot to unpack. FIRST, i’m sorry. SECOND, i made a lot of connecting dots here, ugh my mind. 
> 
> SO: Sapnap. he’s both of their friends and neither of them know that. Very interesting stuff going on there. 
> 
> AAAAND, yes I made it so that Dream got his name from what George called him. And no, they didn’t remember each other when they saw each other again. Also, they totes both talked about their experiences getting black-out drunk unknowing that they were both talking about the same day. 
> 
> okay lemme know what you think as always. i’m gonna update the playlist btw. hehehehe bye :)


	7. Mr. Disco

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The build-up

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I love the quackity/karl/sapnap frienship so much bro i ... <3  
> things are popping off y'all! Also the comments from last time made me so hype thank you so much i rlly appreciate it sm!!  
> chapters are def going to be longer!!

☆.｡.:* .｡.:*☆

_I fall into him, again._

_He’s running figure-eights in my head, circling around his finger in my hair. I know nothing of myself, nothing of substance, but the press of his lips against mine. He erases me, grinds me down into pieces of confetti, until we’re both that same cosmic dust that made us. We’re scattered in each other, his other calloused hand finding its rightful place in mine—one and the same._

_His hand grips my hair, and I whimper—begging for him to devour me. His tongue laps at the gap between my jaw and neck, trailing down until he bites at my chest. It’s euphoria; the way he tugs at my skin with his teeth, burying me inside him._

_“You missed me, didn’t you?” I can’t distinguish the meaning in his words—whether he means that I’ve missed my chance or that I’m aching for him; one in the same, aren’t they?_

_“I did. I do,” I affirm, gripping his hand harder, scared that he’ll slip away. “It’s cruel. I hear your name in everything; music, movies, headlines, day-to-day shit. I can't help but wonder what you’re doing—if we’re eating at the same time or if you’re listening to the same song as me. I wonder if you’ve changed at all, whether your hair is longer or shorter. Most of all, I wonder about where we’d be if I gave you my number, anyways. Where we’d be if I broke off that dumb deal,” I break into laughter, “we were so stupid, yknow.”_

_We’re on a grassy field, somewhere in the city, but I’m terrible at remembering locations. There’s never anyone around in this dream. It’s just me and him, surrounded by lilacs and sunflowers._

_His eyes close in on me, those lithe knees on either side of my hips, drawing shapes around my mouth with his fingers. “You should’ve stopped me.” he whispers._

_“I should’ve. I’m not good at wanting things. I’m not good at asking for the things I want, either.” I tuck his hair behind his ear, unable to look away. He’s always the same, wearing that green sweater with those black pants—a bit damp, but warm anyways. The years never change him, only washing away the distinguishable features of his face little by little._

_“Practice, then,” he says softly, riding up my shirt and then licking at the crown of my nipple, my jaw going slack in surprise. “Tell me what you want.”_

_He rubs himself off on me through his jeans and I moan audibly, a stream of pleasure building up in my gut.“Mmmm, fuck.” I instinctively push up against him, a desire to feel more of him filling my senses. “You feel so good,” I say brokenly, our movements becoming more erratic and fast, chasing that sweet indulgence in each other._

_“Tell me-,” he groans, “tell me what you want, George.”_

_“I just want you. I-,” a whimper, “I want you so much. You’re all I’ve ever wanted—for years. I need you,” I cry out when he pushes into me with more force, “I need you so bad.”_

_“Say my name this time. ‘Wanna hear you say it.”_

_I hate it—the way I’m so easily weak for him, his words searing my skin.“Dream, god. Dream.”_

_He bites down on my neck._

_And then I bleed in blots of sky blue and lime; I bleed and I bleed and I bleed._

☆.｡.:* .｡.:*☆

**December 28, 2020**

**Manhattan, New York**

“You look like shit, man. When’d you go to bed?” Alex asks, engulfing an entire spoonful of Frosted Flakes and sighing blissfully. The window doesn’t shield any of the harsh sunlight, piercing into George’s eyes. He backtracks, still bleary-eyed and taken aback from that strange dream he had. Or really, the strange dream he’s had every few months. 

“Oh, George, sweetie. Do you have a fever?” his grandmother questions, cupping the back of her hand to his forehead to check for any indication of heat. She’s on her tippy-toes and still has a hard time reaching for his head. Alex stifles a laugh at the sight.

“M’fine,” George replies, pulling a seat from the table and throwing himself into it, his head burying into his folded arms. “Just tired,” his muffled voice says begrudgingly. Alex pokes at his head with his index finger, as if testing whether he’s alive or not. George tips his head up just enough to uncover his eyes and glares at him in the most threatening way he could manage.

“Nah, grams. I think he’s sick after you shoved that casserole down his throat yesterday.” He kicks at George’s legs and laughs.

“Alex!” she warns.

“I’m not in the mood, shut up.” George kicks him back while he’s drinking a glass of orange juice and he sputters, coughing into the hollows of his elbow. His grandmother shakes her head in disbelief while Alex regains his composure.

“Hmm, I don’t know. You kinda sounded like you were in the mood while you were sleep-talking earlier…,” he says slyly. 

“Stop.”

“You kept repeating this phrase—what was it?”

“Stop,” he insists.

 _“Ple-_ ,”

“Shut _up_ , Alex!” George pushes his chair out abruptly, the legs screeching on the tile loudly, and slams his hands on the table. Alex and his grandmother stare at him in surprise. He realizes his rash action and sits back down quietly, “ugh. Whatever.”

“Whoa, uh- I was joking,” his friend’s eyebrows wrinkle in a worrisome expression, “I’m sorry, dude.”

He knows he doesn’t mean any ill-intention with his actions. Alex just has a tendency to word-vomit, not because he can’t control himself but because he hates awkward silence more than anything. It’s one of the reasons why George befriended him so easily, the two becoming a pair almost instantly after Karl introduced them to each other. He’s only known him for a few months but after bringing him here just a few days ago, his grandmother already has a soft spot for him. George secretly thinks it’s because Alex won’t turn down any of her meals and constantly compliments her—a natural sweet-talker, he is. 

“Slept on the wrong side of the bed, I guess. It’s fine,” George deflates, his grandmother frowning at him.

“Oh, Georgie. I think all of this moving and travel is getting to your head. When you leave, remember to buy some sleeping medication from the store, okay?”

“I’ll remember for him, don’t worry, grams.”

That’s the thing, he’s back in New York again after two years. Sapnap had begged him to accompany him during a convention that one of his streamer friends would be hosting, pleading, _you have to come, it’ll be so fun_.

He felt bad, mainly because he’d always reject Sapnap’s invitations prior to this one. He’s just not that intrigued by the prospect of streaming, choosing to distance himself from his friend’s craft. It’s not that he hates it, he’s just scared that he’ll fall into bad habits if he gets obsessed with a job career that he won’t profit off of. And he loves gaming so the idea of capitalizing off of it leaves a sour taste in his mouth. He doesn’t want to start hating the things that bring him joy, after all. But that also means that he can’t keep turning down Sapnap, especially when he’s this excited about it.

So, here he is, despite himself. Alex decided that he’d come last minute as well, so he’s currently situated with George at his grandmother’s house. Sapnap and Karl had booked a hotel room at an Embassy Suites, proclaiming that they wanted to enjoy New York and all of its _luxurious_ offerings. In two days time, they’d all be attending a New Year’s Eve party to celebrate his friends’ streaming achievements with other content creators. 

It wouldn’t be truthful if Sapnap was the only reason that he decided to come all the way down here from England, though. 

There was also that lingering hope that he’d see a familiar face in the crowd. He’d packed up all of his stuff when Sapnap proposed the idea, deciding that he’d spend a holiday with his grandparents for a month. 

And it shows in his demeanor, an unlikely sadness seeping out of him once he got to New York. His friends tried to shake it off of him, barraging George with jokes and chatter, even going as far as to buy him random gifts for his past-due birthday. He loves them a lot and tries his best to make them believe that the unchanging patterns of the city don’t bring up wistful memories. The trip from the airport was excruciating—the all too familiar pathways they had walked down together blurring into mere colors while he gazed outside of the car window. Blurred and indistinct, just like Dream’s haunting face in his slumber. Strange how everything possesses an amorphous quality after the passage of time. 

“George. Geoooorge. George!” Alex calls out, waving two hands in front of his face. George looks at him blankly, now registering that his grandmother has already exited the kitchen, leaving the two of them alone at the dining table.

“What, idiot?” he catches one of his hands and forces it back down to his side.

“You’re not mad at me, are you? I might’ve taken it too far in front of your grandma, but honestly, I just thought it’d be funny! You usually laugh at that type of shit.” He scratches at the back of his hair, tugging his beanie along with it, obviously nervous.

“I’m not mad. It’s just...ugh,” George pauses, “I had _that_ dream again.”

“Wait, what dream?” he questions, then widens his eyes in realization, “Oh, _that_ one.” He dumps his bowl in the sink, then turns on the faucet to clean his dish. “Look, dude. All I’m saying is, it would be easier for us to help your _problem_ , if you told us about what this dream was. I mean, I’ve told you all of _my_ embarrassing dreams, like, remember that one I had about your mom?”

“Please, not again. I don’t ever want to relive you telling me about that.”

He starts cackling, “Okay, okay, fine. But, I’m just trying to show you that I’m not gonna judge. Hell, you could tell me that you had a dream where you fucked an apple and I wouldn’t judge you. Karl’s told me worse dreams of his.”

The dream situation (no pun intended) has been a consistent battle between George and his friends, unbeknownst to them. It’s pathetic, but he still hasn’t told anyone about his sexuality crisis and by extension, Dream. Every time he feels inclined to tell them, an anchor of doubt suddenly pushes his confidence down and he’s back at square one. The only thing that he’s told them is that he’s been having a repeating dream about someone from his past.

“It’s fine, Alex. It’s not that big a deal, anyways. It’s not, like, anything earth-shattering. Also, talking about Karl, did he or Sapnap text in the group chat? We were supposed to go out later, remember?” 

Alex cleans off his hands with a washcloth and opens his phone, “of course they did.” 

**Groupchat: honk bitches**

Today, 12:45 P.M.

**Sapnap:** are you up losers

 **Sapnap** : are you up

 **Sapnap:** GUYS

 **Sapnap:** karl they’re not responding :(

**KarlJacobs:** oh naw they're out the gang for this one, for sure

**Sapnap:** ikr, i can’t believe i lost two friends in one day….

**KarlJacobs:** what a world we live in….amiright?

**Sapnap:** that’s why i only trust you karl <3 love you bestie

**KarlJacobs:** <333 let’s get breakfast downstairs and have a cute little date <333

**Quackity** : now what the fuck goes on

**Sapnap:** look i found a pic in my camera roll of alex guys

**Karl:** oh word?? 

**Quackity:** ok what the hell

**Sapnap:**

**[Quackity has left “honk bitches”]**

“Nevermind, I hate them,” Alex says, straight-faced. George laughs and shoots them a quick message from his own phone.

**GeorgeNotFound:** hi

**Sapnap:** are you here to yell at us for bullying alex 

**GeorgeNotFound:** no he definitely deserves it

 **GeorgeNotFound:** where are we meeting you though

**KarlJacobs:** uhhhhhhhhh Canal Street?? idk i kinda wanna go to chinatown

**Sapnap:** yeah true, they have cool shit there

**GeorgeNotFound:** okay we’ll probs be there at 1:30. i’m gonna get dressed.

**Sapnap:** please tell me you took a shower yesterday, i don’t think i can handle you smelling like assbutt today

**KarlJacobs:** oooo get him bestie

**GeorgeNotFound:** you know i’m starting to understand why alex left this chat

**Sapnap:** wtf this is betrayal, ur supposed to be on our side.

**GeorgeNotFound:** u literally told me i smell like assbutt 

**Sapnap:** what can i say, i don’t lie.

**KarlJacobs:** STOP FIGHTING !!! ur breaking this family APART !!!

**GeorgeNotFound:** i’m gonna make believe i didn’t hear that slander and say bye. Bye.

**KarlJacobs:** look what you did Sapnap, this is why no one likes us

**Sapnap:** Sigh…. so sad to see him leave but i love to see him go <33333 ;)))

**KarlJacobs:** wtf

“Okay, they said to meet them at Canal Street,” George states, a little ticked off. 

“Did they bully you too, George? We need to plot a rebellion against them, I swear.” 

After they clean up the remaining plates on the table, George and Alex head towards the stairs to dress themselves. George pauses on one of the stairs, looking down at Alex in earnest. “So, I might have a question.”

“We are legit on the stairs, what can be _that_ important for you to stop in your tracks and ask me a question?” Alex deadpans.

“No, no. It’s serious, give it to me straight.”

“What, you fucking Brit?”

“Do I smell bad?” he says quickly, mumbling on the words.

Alex chortles, a small laugh leaving his lips, “what?”

“Don’t make me repeat myself, shut up.” 

“ _Oh my god_ , I cannot believe you’re asking me this right now,” he chuckles, voice going high from his laughter.

“You know what, forget it. Forget I even asked, you absolute dickhead,” George grumbles and stomps up the stairs.

“No! No-,” he pauses to breathe in his hysterics, “George!” he now says in a faux British accent. “You don’t smell bad, George!” Once Alex reaches the top of the stairs, George is already shutting the door in his face with a loud thump. “I can’t—,” he chokes on a laugh, “you smell amazing, Georgie! I promise!”

George unbuttons his pajama shirt on the other side of the door with a smile on his face, “fuck you, asshole.”

☆.｡.:* .｡.:*☆

“Well, would you look at that. The boys are back together again,” Sapnap remarks while giving Alex a _homie handshake,_ as he likes to call it. They’re in front of the downtown exit for Canal Street’s train station, Karl and Sapnap greeting them from behind the kiosk to the MTA bus. 

“We didn’t see each other for a day. Chill out, lover-boy,” Alex chimes. 

“What can I say? I missed the homies.” They start walking in a group, led by Karl who apparently knows where he’s going. The brush of winter’s wind tickles George’s ears, the tips going red with the sudden intrusion. The pure-white piles of yesterday’s snow storm were quickly hauled away by the sanitation trucks, the dirty grey-slush stuck to the roads being the only residue left. 

“Thought you had enough with your bro-cuddles with Karl,” George offers, Karl replying with a squeaky laugh. 

“Yeah, what’s up with that, Sapnap? I thought we had something special.” Karl pulls his theatrics, pretending to sulk by letting out a series of sad sighs. 

“Bro, I love you. C’mere,” he responds, pulling Karl into a hug. They both start laughing and slapping each other with the sleeves of their jackets, an evident affection there.

“ _Ugh_ , get a room.” 

Just as George finishes that statement and begins to move closely to a row of parked cars lining the sidewalk, a _BLEEP_ blares at his back, followed shortly by a cutting _WHOOSH._

“Whoa-ho-ho!” _Fuck._ “Now look who’s in the festive spirit! Jealousy’s a bitch!” Sapnap snickers while looking at him. _Fuck_ is all George can think as his body registers the dreadful amount of snow on his person, entirely dressed in a layer of grey mush. 

He’s going to kill him.

“Are you serious?” His teeth are chattering, but would otherwise be gritting against one another from how much he’s struggling not to lunge at Sapnap. “Y-you better shut your fucking mouth or else.”

“Oh shit, you’re shivering! Dude, I’m sorry—you just, like, it was so funny! I mean, the only car on the road just ends up speeding and then legit buries you in—,” 

“You’re all dying tonight.” George’s jaw heavily clamps down at the end of each word from both the drop in his body temperature and his growing frustration despite his best efforts to sound unaffected. He only has on one layer—a thin brown trench coat over his dress shirt. So it’s just his luck that the only car on the street would greet him with a kick of icy snow.

“Today’s not your day, is it?” Alex questions, swatting away the leftover excess from behind, the others helping by wiping away the snow on his arms.

“It _really_ isn’t.”

It’s shaping up to be an awful week, the onslaught of outlandish happenings only increasing as the days go on. The four of them spend the rest of their day exploring the small shops and stands of Chinatown until nightfall. Sapnap purchases a pair of knock-off sneakers, asserting to the others that it was an awfully good deal when they looked just like the original shoes. They also talk about their desires for the new year over their dinner of pork buns and bubble-tea, Karl boasting about the YouTube channel he’s been planning. Alex talks a bit about the upcoming party, excited that George will finally meet the friends they’ve all made online. Upon leaving the restaurant, the moon greets them proudly in the sky, glinting its pristine glow in rays of white light. 

George spots a small bakery that he recognizes and beckons the others to follow after looking at the pastries lining the display cases. It smells of brown sugar and butterscotch, the thought making his stomach do strange loops.

Shelves of canisters and bagged snacks sit to one side of the store, and George silently squats down to grab a box of candy at the bottom. “Have any of you ever heard of Dragon’s Beard Candy?”

“It’s that sticky stuff, right?” Karl asks, leaning on Alex’s shoulder.

“Haha, that’s what she said,” Sapnap quips.

Alex laughs, “you have the humor of an actual five year old, Sap.”

George smiles at the box and flips it around for them to see its contents. “The last time I came here, I bought a box of these for my father. He always talked about this time that he came here with his mum when he was younger and was just fascinated by it. I mean, it looks like silk, right?” George swallows a lump in his throat, “And when I gave these to him, he just looked at me and told me the same story all over again. He didn’t even remember how many times he had told it. Maybe it’s awkwardly sad to talk about but I think it’s nice, you know? The way that he’d lost _all_ of these memories but he still remembered this one so vividly. Time is strange like that—you always remember the smallest details.”

A flash of green along with freckles pop behind his eyes as he blinks, his smile falling slightly. 

“Shit, I miss the old man. D’you remember when he let us into his weed stash?” Sapnap bumps George’s shoulder, letting out a pained laugh. “Crazy to think that was four years ago, huh?”

He recalls the time he was fourteen and sitting in the waiting room at the hospital, the surgeons disclosing his father’s illness as Early-Onset Alzheimer's—the excruciating kind that stretches on over years and years until you’re just a husk of who you once were. It’s a scary thing, the way someone can just forget; his memories scattered like a mess of tape from a broken cassette, tangled and caught in loops that grow worse the more you tug or toy with it. 

It happened in the February of twenty-nineteen, a week before he was supposed to see Dream again. By that time, his father only spoke in babbles, his eyes glazed over as he sat atop his bed, unable to move. _Be prepared_ , is what the doctors say. Anyone can think they’re prepared, but there’s an unspeakable heartbreak in watching a grown man forget how to chew his own food, his mother moving his jaw like he was a child. On the Nineteenth, he was attending his father’s funeral, the haunting image of his body in a wooden box burned into his head. 

Time takes no prisoners, the seconds eating at our skin so slowly, so painfully. Just like clouds, people fade, evaporate into that same nothingness that made them. _Fade in and fade out_ , the way passerby’s walk in and out of view, the way that the weather changes in phases—it’s all repetitive. But the hurt never numbs, it only festers into something ugly.

George is incapable of sharing, opting to bottle up his emotions rather than telling people about his problems. It irks Sapnap most of all, his frustration drawing thin as George remains a brick wall. _That day on the phone, when you were in the city, why’d you call me? I was so worried about you and you never told me why,_ Sapnap had pleaded, an over-coating of sadness in his voice. _Just nerves_ , George replied. Sapnap had hung up afterwards, angered that there was no trust there, after so many years. But George has his unhealthy way of coping and can’t shake himself from the comfort it brings. He’d texted him an apology afterwards, saying he’d tell him one day. 

Lies are easy. He thinks of Dream’s eyes, his blonde hair, the way he towered over him in the grass, the way he craves it still. Sapnap’s anger, the discussion he had with him the day after that party, asking him why George always complained about his popularity with women. His dad’s body, six feet under, and his inability to cope with his death. 

It’s easy to say it’s fine, that much is true.

☆.｡.:* .｡.:*☆

“Karl gives me Princess Bubblegum vibes,” Alex says, fixated on the screen in front of them.

“Then you’ve gotta be Marceline, it makes the most sense,” Karl replies.

“What the hell, Karl? What about us?” Sapnap nudges his head out from the other side of the couch to make his presence known.

“You’re the Jake to my Lady Rainicorn, I guess.” Sapnap nods, figuring that it’s a valid comparison.

“And me and Sapnap? What are we?” Alex absentmindedly cards his fingers through Karl’s hair, the flashes of color projecting onto their faces.

“Alex is Finn and Sapnap is Flame Princess. Easy.” Karl’s voice is muffled, tucked into Alex’s arm.

“You know, I can get behind that,” Sapnap affirms.

“What’s this?” George shifts himself to show Sapnap a notification on his phone, the movement being a little hard because of the lack of space on the couch. 

Sapnap has his legs over his lap, sprawled out and coddled in an oversized hoodie. They all had decided to stay over at his grandparents’ house for the night, Alex and Karl cuddling on the other side of the couch while all of them watch Adventure Time reruns. George isn’t really paying attention, mostly just scrolling through his phone while the others make dumb remarks. It’s a tender scene though—the bunch of them fatigued from the walking, in a post-shower daze trying to busy themselves with talking so they don’t fall asleep.

“George, stop showing Sapnap your dick-pics. If you’re gonna do it, at least share with the rest of the class.” Karl giggles lazily at Alex’s jest, tipping his head over to look at George’s screen.

“Boring, he’s just got the party chat open.” He leans back into Alex, stretching his shoulders then laying his head against his arm again. 

“What’re you? A fuckin’ facehugger?” Alex rolls his eyes at Karl’s clinginess, resting his hand against his back regardless. He takes out his phone with the other hand, “Fundy made it two minutes ago, how’d you even know?”

“Duh, ‘saw the notification light up on your phone,” Karl murmurs, exhaling heavily from his comfort. The sounds coming from the television drone on in the background, some fight-scene breaking out. 

“Party chat?” George tilts his head, questioning.

“Yeah, it’s just the group chat my buddy made for everyone going to the party,” Sapnap states, unlocking his phone as well, “here, wait. Lemme introduce you.”

“This feels like a crossover episode. I can’t believe Gogy is finally going to interact with the others.” Karl decides to join in on the texting, not wanting to miss the moment. 

**Groupchat: Party Time**

Today, 11:30 P.M.

**Fundy:** so by popular demand, i’ve made this groupchat

 **Fundy:** hello gamers :3

**Quackity:** ew ur such a furry wtf

 **Quackity:** how am i supposed to act like that didn’t make me throw up

**Fundy:** and i’ll do it again. :3

**Nihachu:** hi everyone!

**BadBoyHalo:** Hello! :D

**Punz:** yo

**KarlJacobs:** EVERYONE!!! hi :)

**Quackity:** karl why are you so cute 

**KarlJacobs:** i’m literally in love with you. xoxoxo

**BadBoyHalo:** o_O

**Quackity:** do u have something to say bad.

**Sapnap:** SHUT UP. let me introduce my friend

**WilburSoot:** no one was talking but go off

**Quackity:** haha wilburs popping off 

**Sapnap:** I SAID SHUT UP

**Sapnap:** GEORGE SAY HI. everyone better say hi to george or else. 

**KarlJacobs:** LETS GOOOO!!!!!!!

**GeorgeNotFound:** um hi, i don’t know most of you but hi

**BadBoyHalo:** Hi, George! 

**Fundy:** hi sapnap’s friend !!!!

**WilburSoot:** i’ve heard about you from Sapnap, aren’t you a fellow brit?

**GeorgeNotFound:** I am!

**Nihachu:** that’s cool! hi George!! 

**WilburSoot:** as it should be tbh

**Punz:** hello GeorgeNotFound

**Sapnap:** hold on let me ping the other bastard

 **Sapnap:** @HardenedClay asshole say hi to my friend

**GeorgeNotFound:** SAPNAP it’s literally fine omg

**Sapnap:** no everyone WILL respect you, including this freak

**KarlJacobs:** mans hits 16M subscribers and doesn’t know how to act

**WilburSoot:** haha true, he’s too famous for us now 

**GeorgeNotFound:** 16 million????

**Quackity:** lmaooo george is about to faint

**KarlJacobs:** baby’s first celebrity meetup <3

**HardenedClay:** What did I miss?

**Sapnap:** you missed my best friend reveal, that’s what 

**HardenedClay:** Oh

 **HardenedClay:** Hi

**GeorgeNotFound:** so ur the rich guy

**Fundy:** look he’s so taken away that he’s only communicating in one word phrases

**HardenedClay:** shut up my hands are wet. wait

**Sapnap:** hmmmm suspicious 

**Quackity:** o_O

**KarlJacobs:** O_o

**BadBoyHalo:** >:|

**Quackity:** karl he’s growling at me, make him stop

**KarlJacobs:** he’s too strong Quackity, i can’t take him on

**HardenedClay:** so George, ur sapnap’s friend right?

**Sapnap:** we’ve been over this clay .

**Fundy:** stop bullying clay, he’s gonna cry in his hundred thousand dollar jacuzzi :,(

**Quackity:** we can sell his tears, someone get the jar ready

**HardenedClay:** oh come on, u know i’m not even that rich

**KarlJacobs:** ur net worth is over one million . who are you fooling boy 

**GeorgeNotFound:** holy shit so we have a whole millionaire in the chat

 **GeorgeNotFound:** also yeah i’ve basically raised him at this point . he was a little asshole

**Quackity:** guys we’re finally gonna unlock sapnap’s backstory, everyone say thank you george and clay <3

**Fundy:** no <3

**HardenedClay:** Ha, tell me about it. I met him when he was 15 and he wouldn’t shut up. 

**Sapnap:** george unintroduce yourself you’re getting too comfortable in here .

**KarlJacobs:** my mans Sapnap is bugging 

**GeorgeNotFound:** no wait Sapnap you’ve never told me about your friend Clay here, let the big boys talk 

**Quackity:** he just called you small 

**Sapnap:** dude don’t even talk ur like two inches

**Punz:** damn you just got served, how does it feel

**Quackity:** going dark don’t hmu…..

**HardenedClay:** That’s weird, I’ve known him for way long and he really hasn’t mentioned me?

**KarlJacobs:** ruh roh raggy, the girls are fighting

**HardenedClay:** Aw shit, I have to go. I’ll talk to you all later about the party and stuff.

 **HardenedClay:** Also it was cool meeting you George. Bye!!

  
  


“He really dipped after one minute, what an ignoramus,” Karl interjects.

“He left us off on a cliff-hanger. We were about to see them fight about how Sapnap never told George about Clay.” Alex barks out a laugh, finding it funnier than George, obviously.

“Yeah, who’s Clay?” George asks, visibly confused and nudging his elbow into Sapnap’s lounging form on the couch. “How’s it that you knew him for so long but never told me?”

“Uh,” Sapnap starts, “I dunno, it just never came up.” 

“It’s cool, ‘m not interrogating you, it’s just weird that I’ve never heard of him before,” George shrugs, trying not to make it into a big deal. 

“Well to be fair, I never told you about the rest of them _either_.” He nudges at George’s side, “plus, you’ve never taken any interest in my streaming life.”

“I guess that’s fair.” It is the truth, _that_ he can’t argue with. Despite it, George still feels his stomach plummet into a slight sadness knowing that Sapnap has known this Clay-guy for years. He doesn’t want to elongate the conversation, though, scared that it’ll turn into an argument. Instead, he changes the topic. “Anyways,” he forces a yawn, “I’m feeling sleepy, how about you guys?”

“I’m actually surprised you haven’t fallen asleep already,” yawns Alex, mimicking his action. “Go to bed, George. I’ll inflate the air mattresses and shit.”

George pushes Sapnap’s legs off of his lap and gets to stretch his limbs, his back resounding with a crack. “Okay, cool. I’ll be in my room sleeping. Don’t wake me up unless the house is on fire.”

“Goodnight, Gogy!” Karl yells first then is followed by the others. They yell somewhat in unison, sounding like the pulling of an accordion.

He walks up the stairs, bidding adieu and goodnight.

☆.｡.:* .｡.:*☆

_“Where are we?! I don’t think I’ve ever been here!” I have to yell over the loud music, barely hearing myself in my own ears. There’s a crowd of people dancing, all of them drowned out by the sound of the bass matching with my heartbeat. My skin feels sticky, an illicit danger to the entire scenario in blaring lights of blue and green._

_“You mean you don’t remember? Are you that drunk?” He twirls me around, dancing in side-steps and head lulls, basking in the heat of the moment. His neck shines in the light, a few drops of sweat and glitter sliding down its surface—I have an urge to dip my tongue there and taste it. “You’ve gotta be kidding me, Georgie!”_

_I lift my gaze back up and make eye contact at the nickname, trying to piece together the meaning of his words in the electric haze. It doesn’t help that the crowd starts to act up, the drink I had apparently had in my hand sloshing about as they begin to rock back and forth. I can barely process the array of colors on the floor as is, also distracted by how dry my lips have gotten. I figure he’ll let me in on what he meant if I play the fool._

_Dream chuckles. “Uh,” he wraps the few ungelled strands sticking up from the top of my head around his ring finger. “That day we met, you don’t remember?” He gets in even closer to whisper in my ear, and I’m stuck imagining the quirk of his smile. “I’ll let you figure it out yourself, then.”_

_I manage a hum in response, my eyes hooded while that buzz tingles through the tips of my fingers._

_A bristle of a laugh tickles my cheek and then Dream evaporates into the crowd, a neon green ghost. My tongue feels heavy, but with words or thirst or something in between? I wouldn’t know. All that sticks to me is that ethereal voice of his, glowing fluorescent as I rewind and replay, “I’ll let you figure it out yourself, then.”_

_I decide in my rapidly increasing stupor to take in my surroundings one last time, the place transformed with a simple twirl—a disguised Pollack painting with disgraceful, oscillating specks of life._

_It is getting pretty late, isn’t it?_

_And with that, I’m ghosting too._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> LIIIISTEN I STILL CANT BELIEVE ALL THE COMMENTS LAST TIME !! THAT WAS SO COOL!! To anyone recommending this on tiktok or twitter or anything else, i love you and i love hearing responses to my writing ahhhsggjasfj <3
> 
> This chapter had a lot of texting but what can i say, i used to write text fics so maybe i got carried away idk
> 
> OKAY BUT I'D LIKE TO REPEAT THAT IM SO GRATEFUL FOR YOU ALL, the songs that i name the chapters after also match so well y'all def listen to new order
> 
> (karaoke stream was real funny, why does hey delilah fit this stupid fic so perfectly)


	8. Run

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The party.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I want to thank you all for the feedback on my author's note from before. 
> 
> I've decided to continue this fic! I do, however, want to once again stress the importance with boundaries and content creators. Please be respectful!

☆.｡.:* .｡.:*☆

“ _Where’s Sapnap?_ ” Dream voices, reading a donation from the corner of his monitor, “I think he’s busy right now, guys. Don’t worry, I’ll stream with him sometime this week.” He says it impassively, eyes locked on the screen in concentration, the click of his mouse and the smacking of keypads sounding loudly. His heart is jammed in his chest, only forty seconds left to slay the Ender Dragon and complete the game in under twenty minutes. He’s closer now, twenty seconds. The thumping of his heart increases, as does the sweat collecting at the tips of his fingers. 

_Ten, nine, eight, seven, six, five…_

Patches nudges her face into the side of his ankle and his fingers slip. His eyes dart over to the green timer at the top, _twenty minutes and three seconds_ , it reads. 

“Ugh! I was so close, too.” He bangs his hand on the desk, mad at himself that he couldn’t salvage such a perfect run. Messages start flooding in the chat; mostly people telling him that it’s okay or that he’ll do better next time. “Thanks chat, I’m just mad that I got such a good seed and messed it up. _Ah_ , oh well.”

He responds to the remainder of his donations, then says farewell to his chat, his mouse clicking on the _end stream_ button once he finishes. He stretches out with a satisfied groan. Eventually, he looks over to Patches who gazes up at him with a pleading expression. “Lemme guess, you’re hungry.” She meows loudly in response. “Okay, okay. I hear you loud and clear.”

These past two years have gone by in a flash, Dream amassing something along the lines of success and happiness, along with the overturning of his old living for a new one. After years of studying trends, he’d known that he would be, at the very least, making enough money to live comfortably. But being this popular? He’d never have guessed it. 

He still can’t wrap his head around it, barely looks the part, either—it’s evident in the beaten up shoes he still wears daily, paired with his signature jeans and hoodie. His hair’s longer, the length of it reaching the bottom of his neck; _very early 1990s Keanu Reeves_ , Fundy had said. Before this party, he needs to freshen up and wear something different. Cut this hair off, too.

After placing a generous amount of cat food in Patches’ bowl, the doorbell rings rapidly without any breaks. He scoffs, knowing who it is before even opening the door. “You know, you really need to stop doing this shit,” he remarks as he swings open the door, clad in gym pants and a thin shirt.

“Chill out, asshole. I’m supposed to be giving you that stupid makeover you asked for,” she says and pecks the side of his cheek, then pushes past Dream’s shoulder. “Oh, Patches, my beautiful girl. Is Clay treating you okay? Aw, look at you eating your food. You’re just precious.” She bends down on her knees and starts petting Patches behind her ears, a long purring sound following suit.

He sighs and shuts the door behind her, “you could say hi for a change. It’s not that hard.”

She pulls a chair at the dining table and slouches down on it, “you prefer me this way. Actually, scratch that. You love it.”

Violet’s his current girlfriend; they’ve been together for a few months—almost a year—and he’s the happiest he’s been in a while. She has a cocky personality, real snotty but selfless underneath it all. They mesh well, he thinks; her brown hair complimenting his, along with those brown eyes, and way too coincidental likeness to someone he used to know. Dream was never one to have a _type,_ but people change. Or they just find better ways to cope with their denial. 

It used to be a weekly routine; looking for a stranger to fill up the empty side of his bed, anyone to fill the hole that he so desperately ached from. He met her behind the register at a flower shop, her fingers slipping in a small card with her number on it with the order he’d purchased. At first it was supposed to be a fling, some one night stand to feel that heated and lust-filled bliss. But then she said something that struck a nerve, hit a little too close to home— _h_ _ave you ever been in love, Clay?_

A bubble of reminiscence popped in his chest; the taste of freshly baked sugar cookies, the eyes of a stranger opposite him, the vinyl player spinning the record around and around. _Heaven, a gateway, a hope._

Between spread thighs and soft skin, he felt some small inkling of hope. Flipping the hourglass and starting over again is easier said than done, but if anyone can, Dream can. Dream doesn’t fail. Not now, not ever.

☆.｡.:* .｡.:*☆

“You look good, Clay. Can’t believe I bagged such a hottie under all that must,” she laughs, putting down the shears onto the bathroom sink. He swipes his face of the stray hairs that managed to land themself on his cheeks and nose. “Look in the mirror, babe.”

He looks up at himself, the long tendrils of dirty blonde that once sat atop his head now gone. It’s neater, definitely, with curtain bands and a middle-part. It looks good, like how his hair used to be when he was a football jock in high school. “Should’ve never shown you those pictures of me in high school. I’ve set an unrealistic bar for myself now.” 

She giggles and smooths her hand over his hair, “I disagree. You're usually one to stroke your own ego! I’m surprised you’re not boasting about how sexy you look.”

“I gotta be humble, sometimes.” He gets up from the seat they’ve placed into the bathroom, stepping on pieces of his hair. “Ugh, Vi. Get a broom, please.”

“Sorry, I’m still starstruck that my boyfriend looks this good. But, fine, fine. I’ll get a fucking broom, you ass.” She leans up and kisses him on the lips, Dream reciprocating by kissing her back, a smile on his face. She closes the door behind her and Dream busies himself by staring at his reflection. 

His phone on the sink vibrates and lights up, shaking him out of his staring competition with himself in the mirror. It’s the group chat that Fundy made, a scoff escaping his lips. _Fucking assholes blowing up my phone._

**Sapnap:** hey so @HardenedClay

 **Sapnap:** what’s the dress code hot stuff 

**HardenedClay:** Dunno, look however you’d like

 **HardenedClay:** btw i cut my hair 

**Fundy:** Noooooo I’m gonna miss your Keanu Reeves era :(

**Sapnap:** can we get a picture . i want a picture.

**HardenedClay:** No, you’ll see it in a few hours anyways.

**Quackity:** papi chulo… please … feed us thirsty bitches.

**HardenedClay:** What does that even mean .

**GeorgeNotFound:** you're telling me he looks like Keanu Reeves, too? wow my expectations are gonna be through the roof for this guy

**HardenedClay:** I don’t look like him, unfortunately. Just had his hair for a while and it was Fundy’s nickname for me.

**GeorgeNotFound:** So what’d you say you look like? I’m curious now

  
  


_Boast about yourself, huh?_ There’s no harm in hyping himself up. A little egotism never hurts anyone.

  
  


**HardenedClay:** Like a good-looking florida boy

 **HardenedClay:** I’m actually pretty muscular, you can ask the others. 

**GeorgeNotFound:** cocky then, I’ll hold you to it

**HardenedClay:** Oh don’t worry, I won’t disappoint. ;)

**Quackity:** are you literally flirting in front of us right now

 **Quackity:** sapnap do something 

**GeorgeNotFound:** He wishes lol

 **GeorgeNotFound:** I gotta get dressed, and you need to get out of bed alex.

**Quackity:** :( fine. anything for u bb boy <333

  
  


The name George doesn’t affect him like it used to, but it still has his head swarming, regardless. It’s been a long time, the years numbing the pain but never taking away those stupid thoughts dancing around his mind. He’s better now, fixed himself up and got a girlfriend and a cat. The only good thing George brought about was the guts to break up with Savannah. Everything else was collateral damage.

Finding people who looked like him, sounded like him, and kissing or sleeping around with them until the hurt went away for a while—that’s the way he lived. He’d imagine the curve of his jaw, the pink of his lips, the way he’d moan his name, all that stupid gooey shit that came with unrequited feelings. _I miss you,_ he’d think with every crush of his lips against another, every thrust of his hips, hoping he’d hear it somehow. He’d bite his bottom lip until it bled, forcing himself to not moan his name or think about the way he’d say _Dream_. It’s better to hate him, another part of him reasoned.

“ _Mmm, maybe that’s the point_ ,” he remembers George saying. “ _I don’t want you to forget_.” He didn’t lie, did he? Now he’s stuck, just wandering in that lukewarm water of his touch, liquid-memories clinging to his skin, thoughts of rain and the sun. Kisses don’t taste like his, and it makes him livid. _You ruined me, George. You crawled in me and died in there and I’m the only one mourning, always chasing that blue-flavor. I hate you._

George is a common name but it still pulls on his heart-strings just right, has him wondering who this guy is. 

The door opens. Violet enters with a broom and dustpan in hand. “You look spaced out. You good?”

“Yeah, yeah. I’m fine.” She’s sweeping the bunches of hair off the floor when Dream puts his hand over hers, stopping her from continuing. “Let me do it, Vi. I already made you fix my hair. A little cleaning isn’t gonna kill me.”

She loosens her grip on the broom, allowing for Dream to take it out of her hands. “ _Alriiight_. I’ll be back soon, though. I gotta go back home and get all dolled up to look good in front of your friends.”

“You don’t have to impress my friends. Yuck,” he thumbs at her cheek and kisses her again.

It wouldn’t be too bad living like this. It doesn’t hurt as much as he thought it would to accept it.

☆.｡.:* .｡.:*☆

His curiosity gets the better of him. He’s laying down, pink light flooding the room from the strips of LED light on his desktop tower when he feels a pulling desire in his chest. He’s darting his eyes back and forth, re-reading the texts in the group chat. One name in particular stands out in blue font. As he opens Sapnap’s twitter, he tells himself that it’s because he’s interested in what his life-long friend looks like. It’s a white-lie, an understatement with little truth in it.

_He’s weak—too fucking weak._

Reluctantly while chewing at the strings of his hoodie, he presses the _following_ button and searches for any usernames including the name, George. There’s three results; two private accounts and one public account. Pushing through the shame, he taps on the only one that’s public. He scrolls through the feed sheepishly, loading through an immense amount of tweets—chasing that dastardly curiosity. Each time the screen loads, he tells himself that he’ll stop, but he doesn’t. He hates that about himself. He never fucking stops.

Once he stumbles on a photo of an unfamiliar man with light stubble and blonde hair, he exits the page regretfully, guilt swarming painfully around his head. _Almost three years and you haven’t fucking changed. Did you actually expect it to be him?_ His mind taunts him.

_He didn’t choose you, anyways. It was a one night thing. You’re happier now, aren’t you?_

He shuts off his phone and buries his head in his pillow with a groan, Patches meowing in surprise. He kicks both his legs on the bed, getting all of his frustration out, along with whatever fluttery feeling attached itself to his stomach. “Stop looking at me like that,” Dream pleads, muffled, to his cat, her head tilting in confusion. “Patches. _Patches, ugh._ Why am I still thinking about him?” He turns around to lay flat on his back and faces the ceiling, throwing his arms to his side, “maybe I just want closure...”

It’s a reasonable thing, right? 

Impulsively, he grabs for his phone again, this time opening his abandoned google photos application. He knows the row by heart, the column too—his face feeling that reckless heat, the one doused in rain all those years ago. Stupid raging heat that he should’ve extinguished by now, dying into a low flame, but still very much alive. 

Rain doesn’t stop an impetuous fire, though, does it? It just makes it multiply, spanning across the ground with more vigor, growing larger by the spent seconds. 

It’s that photo, the one that was taken in New York City by some random woman who they didn’t know—a woman he should be grateful for now, or maybe angry at, he can’t say. Dream looks lankier here, with shorter hair too. He’s more tan and blonde, probably from the bleaching of the sun. 

And George, god, _George,_ his stomach keens. He knows the details of the saved image by heart; the stretch of green light hitting his face from the city lights, that crooked smile he’s got on, looking dashing next to him—goofy but unparalleled. He squeezes his eyes shut, forcing out that influx of gushiness shooting through his heart. A shaky exhale of breath through his nose and he’s nuzzling his way into a pile of blankets that shouldn’t feel as human-shaped as they do. His cat’s at the foot of his bed, probably mocking him from this stupid display of pining. 

Yearning is suffering, he learns. Yearning is burning too.

His heart’s on overdrive, the incessant need to build a time machine and go back to that day in August heavy in his head. Dream grips the blankets harder, curls in on himself while the twinkling double-downs on his stomach, makes it hard not to blush thinking about him. He didn’t kiss him right, didn’t hold him like he should’ve, didn’t stay. There was nothing he wanted more than to hear George ask him to stay. 

_“Oh, and George?”_

_“Yeah?”_

_He wants to tell him his name or say something conclusive, anything to get George to ask him not to leave. But the words catch on air, George’s ghosting image against the train station making him choke, eyes staring into his. In that moment he looks familiar, like he’s been here, across from him like this—as if he was cut out from a magazine and pasted onto a different backdrop. Once he shakes it off, the train doors are closing in._

_“Nevermind! Bye!” he yells quickly, his form blending into dancing lights._

He sits up and undresses himself, changing out of his lounge clothes and replacing them with the assortment that Violet picked out for him. It’s a black dress-shirt and tight pants, the combination making him look _expensive_ , like he’s actually the person he should be. He turns around to face his wall-mirror and forces a smile, preparing himself for a socially exhausting night. 

His hair looks soft, reflects the light just right. He unconsciously brushes his bangs with a wave of his finger when he checks himself out more attentively _. Brush up on those details_ , he silently recites when his own dark eyes catch with those in his reflection. He pops a button from the top of his collar, folds it down until his collarbones and neck muscles are up for display, adorned with the cowrie shell necklace he’s become accustomed to wearing. It gives him that laid-back surfer look that everyone likes. He _knows_ he looks good, especially when he puts on those tipped dress shoes he owns.

“Whaddya think Patches? Do I look spiffy or what?” She doesn’t so much as glance at him, fixated on burrowing her head into the pillows. He sighs, cuddling next to Patches on the bed and cradling her tiny frame. 

Party-time. 

☆.｡.:* .｡.:*☆

They’re late by an hour, courtesy of George’s oversleeping and Karl’s indecisiveness on what to wear. Alex and Sapnap, on the other hand, got dressed fairly quickly and when George didn’t answer from his locked room, his grandmother had to get out the old-fashioned keys. He’d remembered feeling fatigued suddenly, and closing his eyes with only his dress-pants on. The sleep-spells only seemed to get worse as the days went on, his desire to slip into his dreams about a certain blonde increasing steadily. _Ugh, put a fucking shirt on,_ Alex had screamed and shielded his eyes from his shirtless figure, over-dramatic yelling from him and Sapnap jolting him awake.

At least George got dressed immediately. Karl was still fixing his side-swept bangs with gel and lint-rolling his clothes, asking everyone dozens of times if he looked good. Sapnap and Alex urged him on with their compliments, making sure Karl felt good about himself. _The three of them are so weird_ , George often thought. They expressed their platonic love for each other so easily, Karl kissing Sapnap or Alex on the cheek and cuddling next to them like it was simple. Like there were no implications, just dudes expressing their feelings openly. _Must be easy for straight people,_ he deduces.

“Clay’s gonna be pissed at me, I can just feel it.” Sapnap’s voice is barely there, muted by the loud sounds going on in the room. There’s a lot of colors going on, a lot of people, too. It reminds him of his adolescent years, the vacations he’d spent with Sapnap, and everything in between.

They were stupid kids—Sapnap, mainly. Both of them were quiet on their own, but when they were _together,_ it was always eruptive. Sapnap would cling onto him, often piggybacking off of the popularity that George accrued for no known reason. He’d get invited to everything and Sapnap made it a point to use it to his advantage. Those days were fun, not because of the parties themselves, but because of Sapnap’s dumb antics. He disliked everything else, actually.

“He’s rich as hell, I’m sure he’ll get over it,” George says in Sapnap’s ear, and reaches out for a small appetizer that a waiter brings over—some hot-dog type of food. He pops it in his mouth and Sapnap pouts.

“Should've got one for me, Gogy. I didn’t even see the waiter-guy,” he hits his elbow against his arm. “I think I’ll just text Clay. I literally don’t think I’d survive looking for him when all of these people are here, dude.”

Karl huddles into them suddenly, cupping his mouth like he’s got a secret to tell.

“Woah! Guys, guys. Come closer,” Karl beckons and the three of them lean into his vicinity. “There’s a really pretty girl over there and I think she’s looking over here.” They all look over slyly, trying to not make it obvious that they’re staring. She’s blonde, wearing a pink shimmery dress with stoned tights—really alluring, but not up George’s alley. 

“She’s totally looking at you, George!” voices Alex and the other two agree with nods and excited yelps, trying to set him up with the girl who, _yeah,_ is definitely staring at him. She notices his gaze and whispers something to her friends, then looks back into his eyes and smiles, glossy-lipped with white teeth. It should make him feel something, so he pretends it does.

“That’s definitely George’s type too. He’s always told me he had a thing for blondes,” Sapnap winks, “George is just a natural-born woman magnet.” George laughs, tries to make it sound genuine while the others write it off as him being nervous. Before they can continue conversing about the pretty girl across from them, a man thankfully pokes at Sapnap’s shoulder. 

“Sapnap! Alex! Karl! And Sapnap’s friend!” He yells out and half-hugs Sapnap, a can of White Claw in his right hand. He’s ginger, with strangely long fingers, and a lanky body. He feels like he’s seen him before. 

“Fundy, my man! Shit, dude. I haven’t seen you in ages,” Alex exclaims and wraps him in a tight hug, Karl doing the same. “George, this is Fundy! He made the group chat. Very cool dude, I’d say. Smart as hell, too.”

“Hey, hey. Coding doesn’t make me smart, just makes me look cool. George, you’ve ever seen that movie with Tom Cruise?” He snaps his fingers, and closes his eyes, trying to remember the name. “It’s on the tip of my tongue…, oh! Minority Report, I think. Shitty fucking movie but these guys act like I’m fuckin’ pulling neon projections outta my ass just cus’ I code.”

Karl squawks, and nods, knowing damn well he’s spitting the truth.

“It’s because the three of them are idiots. Not like I’m not one either, though.” 

“Nice save, dickhead. You’re probably the stupidest one out of all of us. Pretty sure your head’s ninety-percent air,” Sapnap adds, knocking on George’s head for good measure. He swats away his hand.

“George is so ditzy too. I’ll be talking to him thinking he’s listening and then he just goes _what did you say?_ It’s really funny, actually,” Alex replies, and George is already blushing from their comments.

“ _Shut up_. You’re all annoying.”

“You guys are so cute. Me and Clay—we’re the same way. Everyone thinks he’s so cool but he’s just a big softie. I always tease him and no one believes me. He’s like a golden retriever.” Fundy leans against a table and takes a large swing of his drink, cracks it once he’s done while letting out an exhale. 

Fundy’s nice, George decides. There’s an inherent comfort in his laid-back posture and buttoned down Hawaiian print shirt, plus that languid attitude that screams _I don’t give a shit_. 

“Shit, catch you on the flip-side man. Clay’s telling me to meet him in the guest-room.” Sapnap starts typing on his phone, groaning at the replies he seems to be receiving.

“No rush, I’ll be here all night. Go talk to Clay, he’s so whiny when he doesn’t get his way.”

“Oh, you’re telling me. Guy’s always giving me lip,” the crowd only gets thicker around them, some pushing their way through to get to the other side of the room. “See you, man.”

☆.｡.:* .｡.:*☆

It’s been a solid few minutes hanging in the guest-room. They’ve descended into a random conversation, spurred on by George’s secret admirer in the crowd. It’s easier to hear each other now but his ears are clogged from the aftermath of being next to one of the large speakers. Everything sounds garbled—underwater kind of noises, bubbling and popping in succession.

The room looks something like a hotel-suite, everything looking a little too perfect—wrinkle-free bed sheets, beige walls, and a large rug without any crumbs. 

“George is so lucky. He’s such a pretty boy. All the girls love that,” Alex says, sitting on the edge of the bed. The way Alex easily ruins the tidiness makes George snigger a bit, writing it off as a laugh from spinning around in the office chair he’s found. 

“Karl, too. I think it’s because they’re twinks.” Sapnap smirks, and Alex throws his head back to laugh. George stops spinning to look him in the eyes and launches a death-glare that shoots into Sapnap’s forehead.

“Sapnap!” Karl squeals, pushing his shoulder and making him stagger a bit. 

“Oh, here he goes again.” George shakes his head, unimpressed. Somehow, without fail, their chit-chat always steers into comments about George. The only answer he can manage is that he simply lives in their heads rent-free. _Jerks._

“Wait, actually, that’s not true. Tons of people simp for Clay and he’s pretty built,” Sapnap backtracks.

“Nah, he’s still gangly. He’s a...what’s it called? A twunk.” Alex and Sapnap start cackling again, and Sapnap hits his head on the wall from laughing too hard. This only stirs on another fit of giggles from all of them as Sapnap clutches the back of his head in pain.

“Why do you always call him Clay, though?” Karl looks at Sapnap questionably. George feels a tad bit ostracized since he has no idea who Clay is so he continues to slowly spin himself around in the chair, using his feet for momentum.

“D’nno, I’m just used to it. Like, George calls me Nick, sometimes.”

Sapnap and Karl join Alex in sitting on the bed and it creaks from their weight, especially since Sapnap launches himself into one of the pillows. “ _Ew, who farted?_ ” pips Karl and they ignore him with comical silence, probably because his joke was stupid. 

“Ha, imagine if people started calling me Quackity.”

“We literally do.” Sapnap kicks him with the side of his leg, careful to not accidentally put his shoes on the sheets. “But really George—she’s your type. Don’t tell me you’re not gonna make a move, man.”

He thought this chat was over with. “Maybe I’m just waiting for the right moment.” It comes out as flippant without realizing so he laughs afterwards, kind of like how people write _lol_ after an angry message to lessen the blow.

“That’s right. Sass him, George,” encourages Alex with a thumbs-up.

Then, the door’s ajar—the sound of high-heels clack on wood. All of his friends shut up quite easily, either looking down at the floor or playing with their hands. It’s the girl that they were talking about. Karl bumps George’s shoulder and coughs.

“ _Haha_ , sorry. I didn’t notice that you’d be with all your boys.” She’s beautiful, with glitter dusting her eyes and curled hair. Looks like one of those golden trophies with how much she sparkles.

“It’s cool, we were talking bout’ something anyways,” Karl sputters—quickly turning away and talking nonsense with the rest of them. He predicts that they’re pulling faces at one another right about now, scrutinizing George without making it too obvious.

“Hey, I’m Eliza. I noticed you in the crowd, earlier. I think you’re really cute.” It’s that common pick-up line with little introduction, something he’s heard a million times before. But he’s daring, a little pumped from the adrenaline of twirling around in that chair earlier—and he’s got a crowd, people he has to impress to convince them that he’s got moves. Convince them he’s not _a loser,_ just extremely picky when it comes to girls.

“Thanks, I could say the same.” It’s a back-and-forth, he’s noticed, a game of chess but less fun. _Make it believable,_ he thinks as he shoots her a smirk, fake-confidence gushing out of his body. 

“So what’s it that you do? I’m a youtuber—do vlogging and shit, like, seasonal clothing try-ons and thrifting.” He’s itching to roll his eyes, the aspect of a rich girl with a Hermés Birkin bag over her shoulder making bank off of thrifting rubbing him the wrong way. _She probably sells the clothes she bought for five dollars at two-hundred and lists it as one-of-a-kind on Depop_ , a hunch sounds off in his head. He can’t wait to joke about this with Alex later.

“ _Mmm_ , sounds fun,” he wishes he had something in his hand, anything to pick at. “I’m a computer engineer. I don’t stream like most people here but it pays the bills pretty well.”

She gasps and then giggles. “You _don’t stream_? You have the face for it.”

“Nah, I’m not the type to stream,” he confesses. “I’m kinda scared that I’ll get too invested and it won’t go anywhere.”

“I get that,” she pauses and droops her eyelids—tries to steer things in the flirty direction. “Maybe you could build me a PC sometime. Mine’s kinda shit. I don’t know anything about that CPU-GPU talk.”

He wonders how long this initial dialogue will last until she gets brave and makes a move. It’s funny to delay the inevitable so he goes off on a tangent about computers. “Really? Well, the CPU basically processes your data. It’s like the brain of the computer, you could say. The GPU’s a little different—it’s dedicated to making your graphics better. There’s a lot of other factors, though, like if you’d rather use integrated graphics that are built on the CPU chip or if you’d rather get a dedicated graphics card. But, I think it’s a lot to talk about, so...” He lost his self-assurance half-way into his talk, his voice lowering until it burnt out.

“The way you talk, I think it’s real sexy.” She steps into his personal space—bites on her bottom lip and starts drawing circles into his arm with her lengthy nails. He knows they’re all looking, writing off mental notes in their head to bring up to George later on.

“Yeah?” She responds by sitting on his lap, her legs straddling his thighs as the chair lets out a puff of breath. His hands automatically cradle her legs, the sensation of smooth skin making his head loopy—not good, but hopefully not bad, either.

“Yeah,” her lips part, and he decides to commit by kissing her first—all plush-feeling and too-soft. Tastes of waxy lipstick and coffee, smells like it too. He keeps on anyways, pressing into her body and gripping her thighs over her dress to keep her seated— _too easy._ He closes his eyes, mostly to imagine other things but he figures it might look romantic to her. Their mouths slot against each other in that nasty saliva-slick way and his stomach turns as the sides of her hair tickle his cheek. Somewhere in-between the intakes of breath, he hears the turning of the door knob and uses it as a scapegoat. Waiting a while until whispering, “ _shhh, someone’s coming in.”_

“Sap, you here? I tried texting you but my signal sucks ri-,” the voice breaks,“oh, shit! Sorry-,” and a long pause, like he’s just noticed something jaw-dropping. George gives her one more peck on the lips, eliciting a giggle, and pushes her hair down to see the person at the door. 

And then his throat catches on something awful and he’s paralyzed in where he sits. The flood of memories are instantaneous.

 _Dream, Dream, Dream,_ that old mantra calls.

Blue and green lights commingle—turn grey in the zooming of the train, spinning like a centrifuge, until he’s dizzy. That’s how it hits him, like a train gone awry. He’s still pretty, still tugs on his heart just right with those bright eyes and parted lips. He’s a little different, more dolled-up and neat-looking, but stands out just the same. Neon on monochrome.

His heart jumps, the question of whether it’s _fate or karma_ ringing in his head. His lips sting and the instant desire for Dream to lick over them and make it all feel better floods his senses. “Dream?” It’s so quiet, only loud enough for Dream to hear, a tiny secret in a mouthed word.

Dream swallows, and looks him over once more, so hesitant in the way he does it. And then, “I’ll uh—I—gotta go. Uh, yeah.” The door shuts.

Sapnap looks over to him and sighs, catching the way George deflates while the others laugh it off as _George getting busted_. He has an apology in his eyes and George isn’t sure why.

He’s not really sure of anything, either.

☆.｡.:* .｡.:*☆

He’s holding her hand when he sees Dream from the other side of the dance floor, his figure towering over a woman who he doesn’t recognize. He feels light-weight, like he’s not really here, tunnel vision closing in on Dream’s body—his burly legs, the length of his hair, everything about him. The metal on his belt glints blue—pretty, just like him. He’s never felt a rush of lust like this before, a potent desire to walk over and kiss him until his lips are purple, bruised up in blues and yellows so that everyone knows that Dream was his once.

“Wanna dance?” He forgets Eliza is supposed to be his main-focus. She’s cupping his cheek, making sure he’s looking at her. He wishes it was Dream’s hand instead.

“Yeah, sure.”

“Hold me here,” she guides his hands to her lower-back, and puts her arms over his shoulder. He feels like the placement is awkward but she doesn’t pick up on it, content with the way they are. “Your hands are warm, George.”

The way she says his name—it sounds wrong, displaced. His attention drifts again, ponders of _who’s that girl with Dream? Is she better than me? Does she feel better than me? Why isn’t he looking at me, instead?_

There’s party music playing, shifting into something more sensual, and it makes his skin feel raw. Eliza grips his hips, positions him so that she has better access to his neck. He doesn’t care because the arrangement just gives him access to look at Dream more clearly despite the large amount of people around them. He doesn’t break his gaze on him, too focused on devoting all of his attention on the way his body moves. Eliza starts peppering kisses along his neck, licking at it too. 

Dream looks down at the girl, then proceeds to smile while sloppily kissing her lips, her mouth quirking up into a grin. It’s seductive, his tongue slotting over hers with vigor and hunger—makes something thump inside him too, just a bit more than the hurt and jealousy. He lets himself kiss Eliza, the gesture feeling somewhat relieving when he can look at Dream and make believe it’s his tongue he’s tasting. The way he commands kisses, _fuck,_ he still remembers it. Engrossed in the thought, he kisses her back roughly, tries to mute out her moans by thinking of how Dream would sound so much better against him.

He’s always been better than anyone else, always on his mind when he touches himself. He groans and flutters his eyes shut, the image of Dream kissing him makes his pants feel tighter than they should. Those rays of sunshine—they evaporate him, crush him into smoke, thin like clouds. He’s floating and drifting, remembering that dream he had yesterday. This is just like it, isn’t it? He opens his eyes again.

Dream’s halved face is looking at him now, still kissing that girl of his. But this time they’re both looking at each other from opposite sides of the room, Dream’s eyes so dark and blown when he smirks at George’s flitting eyelids. _I’m better than her,_ George tries to say with his eyes. _I’d treat you better, I’d kiss you better—make sure you’re happy._

Dream doesn’t break eye-contact and it makes his entire body quiver, that look capable of shutting his brain down entirely. _He’s doing this on purpose,_ George realizes. 

He doesn’t back down though—starts making lethargic expressions, just to get back at him and make Dream squirm. He momentarily stops, _whoever she is_ kissing the edges of his mouth because Dream won’t reciprocate, too transfixed on George.

Dream falters, just as planned. _He’s still weak for me,_ a triumphant voice in his head screams. 

_And I’m weak for him, too._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I HAVE SOOO MUCH TO TALK ABOUT.
> 
> 1.) The end scene was based off [this scene](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=7eq27zkfM-I) from skam and I'd like to imagine some nice groovy music was playing like addiction by doja cat orr luxury by azaelia banks. IDK!
> 
> 2.) I made George gay in this fic, so thats the thought-process behind all of his romantic interactions with women.
> 
> 3.) I put a lot of symbolism in everything omg. If you're curious about anything, please ask!! I put small details in everything so it's cool when people pick up on it. 
> 
> 4.) Playlist is gonna be popping for real after this, yall. pls listen to it omghguvi!! AND BRO I HATE HOW AO3 PUTS SPACES AFTER ITALICIZED WORDS AFTER I POST IT UGHH it ruins the vibe.

**Author's Note:**

> Temptation - New Order (https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=H2bYMDeaspY) 
> 
> AHH! Please tell me how you feel about it or any speculations/questions? Um, also if you want to make art, pls do! If this gets any traction, I will def make a playlist!! TYSM for reading if you did! Okay bye :^)


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